


Round And Round

by kamawe



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, And Integrated Part Of Our Society, BAMF Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Character Death, Past Jordan Parrish/Stiles Stilinski, Stilinski Family Feels, Thief Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamawe/pseuds/kamawe
Summary: Peter Hale woke up one night to find a young and pretty (but smart-mouthed and insolent) thief in his house. It has since been a clusterfuck.





	1. Round One

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guys! So this baby is something I've been thinking about on and off for the past couple of months. I've done the general outline and have finished about ten chapters. English isn't my mother language so I apologize for any grammar mistakes. This is just something to have fun with. Let me know if you like it!

At first Peter isn't sure what's woken him. One moment he's watching himself strangle his associate attorney Jennifer to death while the cheers of a gathered crowd spur him on, and the next moment his eyes flash open, glowing a deep red. The silk covers of his king-sized bed are caressing his nude body with butterfly touches, the stuffy air is pressing against his chest, and there's a nagging feeling in the back of his head that something just isn't right.

He waits for a couple of breaths, listening intently until he hears the sounds again. Someone's moving around downstairs, and if Peter weren't a light sleeper with the additional advantage of a werewolf hearing, he wouldn't have caught the soft thumps and would still be relishing the thrill of his dream.

As it is, Peter gets up with an annoyed grunt. He puts on his sweats lying by the side of the bed and grabs his cell phone from the nightstand.

Wane moonlight guides him through the house. He descends the stairs and smoothly slides through the shadows, moving like nature intended him to move; graciously, lethally. During the day he has to pretend, has to act like a respectable human being because society likes to play on that fairytale (apparently it helps people sleep easier). But as the night falls on the city and humans exhale for the last time before succumbing to sleep, Peter can become what he was born to be. An animal. And the freedom lights a fire inside his gut.

A noise of something clattering to the floor reaches his ears as he makes his way over to the living room, standing in the door for a moment. The wolf inside him snarls and growls, eager to pounce on the intruder, push them to the floor and tear through their body with sharp teeth, sink long claws into their flesh.

He watches the thief's silhouette run a gloved finger over his fucking expensive painting from God-knows-what century. At the thief's feet lies a fallen photo frame of Peter and his sister Talia, arms thrown around each other, tentative smiles forever frozen in time. Peter remembers that day as if it happened just yesterday. It was the last day he's ever got to have with his sister, before she was wheeled into a hospital, before she abandoned her family and left Peter with the worst gift she could have ever given him. Her Alpha status.

"Take your dirty hand off my painting or I will bite it off," Peter growls, taking a great pleasure in the way the thief's heart rate increases. To his credit, though, the thief turns around quite calmly.

"Technically, I can't dirty it with a glove on."

Peter rarely lets surprise show on his face, but his eyes widen briefly when the thief faces him. He is a human boy, no more than eighteen, nineteen years old. A pretty boy; with pink lips and a dark, spiky hair. The moonlight casts a silver glow on skin dotted with moles, but it's the eyes that catch Peter off guard. They are hazel orbs with rings of amber, twinkling with a sharp gleam that reminds Peter of a tiger seizing up its prey. Which is ridiculous. If anyone is the predator here, it's Peter.

"You have ten seconds to explain who you are and what you're doing here."

The boy raises his eyebrows, smirking obnoxiously. "Is the time limit up for a negotiation? I can't introduce you to my epic life story in the span of ten seconds, dude." He bends over and picks up the photo frame, putting it back on the shelf while carelessly facing away from Peter as if he has nothing to be afraid of.

Peter lets his fangs lengthen, the moon calling for him to show the boy what he is up against, and that finally gets the boy's full attention. "I'm not someone you want to play games with, pup."

The boy's gaze wanders down Peter's bare chest. He licks his lips suggestively. "I can think of a few games alright.”

"What's your name?"

"Jordan," the boy replies without missing a beat, but the stutter of his heart gives him away. Is he that stupid to think he can lie to a werewolf, or is he playing some sort of a mind game with him? Peter loves mind games, but only if he's the one pulling strings. He doesn't appreciate being made a fool of.

"Come closer," he demands.

"So you can tear into my delicate flesh? I don't think so.”

In the blink of an eye Peter stands in front of the boy, who nearly stumbles over his own feet in haste to recreate the distance between them. Peter follows, hounding him across the room, backing him up against a wall. "Lights on," he says.

The boy gapes when the room lights up. "Whoa, _dude!_ Are you gonna beam us up next?" he says, eyes blinking furiously against the harsh light. Peter doesn't understand the reference, if there's even one, but he's too busy studying the boy to give it any thought.

He's even prettier from this up close. Peter puts a hand under the boy's chin and forces his face up. Long dark lashes fan porcelain skin as the boy eyes him with an insolent smile on his lips.

Peter raises the cell phone in his hand. "One last wish before I call the police?"

That finally gets him a genuine reaction. The boy spreads his hands out in a placating manner. "Oh, come on. Nothing bad that we can't fix happened, right? I haven't even stolen anything yet." He blanches at Peter's narrowed eyes. "I didn't mean yet like _yet_ … like I was planning on stealing something. Nope, no, definitely no. No. That would be a bad thing to do, right?"

Peter lowers the cell phone. "Stealing from an Alpha? It would be the last thing you'd have ever done in your short and pitiful life."

The boy chuckles nervously. "Hah, a pinch of dark humor. I like that." When Peter continues glaring at him, the corners of the boy's mouth fall. "Okay, maybe not."

"So, pray tell, what are you here for if not stealing?" Peter asks.

"Well, I will be very happy to answer that question. Thank you for giving me the benefit of a doubt, your jury,” the boy replies with a snark in his tone. “The National Gallery of Art is closed on Saturdays and I'm really far behind with my 19th century pointillism essay…”

Peter types a phone number for the Human-Werewolf PD, which is a branch dealing with interspecies cases, and is about to tap the call button.

"Okay, fine, _gee_ ," the boy snaps, indignation coloring his cheeks a soft red. "I wanted to take the painting, alright? But you caught me before I could have done it, anyway. So no harm."

No harm? Peter doubts that. "How did you get in?"

The boy makes a face. "Through the back door."

“I have a security system.”

“Well, it was off when I slipped in, otherwise you'd be awake much sooner, don't you think?.”

“And why today?” Peter inquires.

"What the hell kind of question is that?"

Peter clutches him tightly by the hand, feeling the fragile bones yield under his fingers, and making the boy gasp in pain. "You don't need to worry your pretty little head about my kinds of questions. You merely need to answer them."

"You were supposed to be out for the weekend. On some convention or shit,” the boy grits through his teeth, eyes shining with unshed tears from the pain.

Although it's such an ignorant way to put it, the boy has his information right. Peter was supposed to attend a monthly meeting of The Alphas but at the last minute, he called in sick. He had a rough week in work (more like a rough month). Jennifer kept bugging him about the case she's been working on, wanting his assistance, wanting his resources, wanting him to waste his valuable time on those half-witted Boreanaz siblings. Peter didn't need to add a weekend posturing in front of other Alphas to it.

“And from whom did you obtain this information?”

“Why do you wanna know? So you can hunt them down for a bloody and gruesome revenge?”

“We aren't in the Dark Times anymore, pup. Werewolves don't solve problems by killing them. We aren't animals.”

Sort of. When someone's watching.

The boy seems to be of the same opinion. He raises his eyebrow, pointedly looking at where Peter's claws are digging into the milky white skin of his wrist. “Then why don't you retract those and we can talk like humans.”

Peter doesn't want to retract his claws. He wants to lengthen them even more. He wants to bury them into the soft flesh and watch as blood wells up from the crescent wounds. The thought sends a funny, excited little thrill shooting through him, and he has to physically restrain himself from not following through with it.

“But then that fresh, beautiful scent of fear coming from you would be gone,” he purrs, and sees a flicker of that fear he smells in the wide amber eyes.

But of course the boy tries to play it cool. "I don't think I'm entirely comfortable with the flow of this conversation,” he says carefully, wetting his bottom lip with a pink tongue. "So I am going to change the topic and you're going to be a good host and will let me.”

Peter tilts his head. He loathes to admit it but he's enjoying himself. This is the most interesting thing that's happened to him in years. Which he has to admit is a bit sad.

“So…” The boy's eyes scan the room when Peter remains silent, and his body vibrates with restless energy of staying too long in one position. “What happens now? I mean, since we established that I haven't stolen anything from you…“

"Oh, we established that?"

"Yeah, well, what can you do, huh? It's my first gig and obviously, I'm not very good at it. I didn't even check if you're really out of the house for the weekend. So I'm gonna go home to my parents who must be worried sick, finish my essay without the visual aid, and we can never see each other again. What do you say?"

To that Peter suggests, "Empty your pockets."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

Peter lets go of the boy's wrist and outstretches his hand, palm up. The boy very reluctantly and with a deep scowl on his pretty face pulls out a stack of cash from one pocket and Peter's titanium watch from the other. He hands them over to Peter, grimacing guiltily.

"Haven't stolen anything?" Peter repeats in a low voice. The boy gives him a _what-can-you-do_ expression that's quite annoying.

"Do you know who I am?" he says. "Or did your secret informant omitted the fun part?”

The boy silently glares back at him.

“I'm not just any low-grade Alpha. To express it in a language you understand, I am one of the head honchos," Peter says, and watches the comprehension dawn on the boy's face.

Every state has one main pack which poses like a supreme government over smaller packs scattered across its territory. In California, chosen members of Hale family have been in the driver's seat for generations. If Peter would be the type to boast (and he's not), he'd say that he's something like a modern-day werewolf royalty.

“No, wait. That's not even the fun part yet. Have you ever met another head Alpha, pup?” He doesn't wait for an answer. The boy won't give him one. He starts to twist under Peter's arms, trying futilely to escape. Peter chuckles at the cute effort.

“We take care of the packs that belong to us, and for that they give us their unbounded trust. We are their wardens and their judges. And all the influence, the power we have over others, it makes us just a little bit insane.”

Peter leans closer, his excited, shuddering breath ghosting over the boy's face. “You can't oversee everything that happens in your realm, you know. So what we can control, we will control it all the more vehemently.”

All the boy's movements still, and he gazes at Peter, with pupils blown with fear and… excitement? _Interesting_. Peter feels a curious kind of warmth slide through him in reaction. Then the boy's eyes stray to the left, focusing on something behind Peter's shoulder, before they widen even further.

“ _Holy shit!_ Who's that?"

Peter whirls around at the exclamation but he finds the room empty. When he turns back, there's a circle of mountain ash around his feet and the boy is gone.

The boy is gone.

The boy is–

For the longest moment, he stares blankly at the spot where the boy was just seconds ago, and then down at the insulting line of grey ash. It takes him the longest time to comprehend what has just happened.

When it does, he tilts his head back and roars in anger so loudly the floor shakes under his feet.

*

"If you don't stop laughing…”

“You what, uncle? Turn around so I can run off?”

That seems to amuse Laura to no end, and she bursts into another fit of giggles. She's so loud and animated that people are starting to turn their heads in their direction. Derek sits stiffly beside his sister on the leather couch like he has a rod stuck up his ass, and he seems torn between what's left of the respect he somehow still holds for his uncle and joining Laura's gleeful reaction.

"I'm sorry, Peter,” Laura heaves, rubbing tears from her eyes, “but that's like the oldest trick ever. I can't believe you fell for it!" Really. For someone in charge of a well-established business such as this night club, Laura is behaving like a child.

Peter decides to wait until she gets herself back under control, letting his gaze wander over to the dance floor where people are writhing against each other like tomorrow is the end of the world. In this right moment Peter questions his sanity. Why did he even tell these two in the first place? But it's only been a day since the boy paid him a visit and the rage in him is still alive. Uncoiling like a snake. He tastes the bitterness on his tongue, and washes down the taste with the rest of his drink.

"What did he take?" Derek asks. Finally, here's a practical soul.

"Nothing. He had my watch and some cash but I caught him before he stole anything valuable."

Derek frowns. Peter imagines the wheels in his head turning a full speed. "How did he even get in? Did you forget to turn on the security system again?"

“I will ignore that rude implication that I'm so irresponsible,” Peter says to Derek, putting away his empty drink, not wanting to break it by the tight squeeze of his hand. Shades of colors dance wildly inside the glass, launched by the disco ball lights twirling above their heads. It's disturbing how the club's questionable style of glittery eighties seems to fit so well with Laura's personality.

"The system was on when I checked,” he says. “The boy must have overrode it somehow, just for long enough to slip in. Though I have no idea how anyone so young would be able to accomplish that.”

The previous night was a huge fiasco. Peter had to choke back his pride and call his human housemaid Sam to break the mountain ash circle for him. He waited, fuming, digging the claws of his right hand into the meat of his thigh, while the left hand crushed his cell phone, electronic parts spilling out of it like tiny guts.

The first thing Peter did after Sam broke the circle was punching through the wall. The wall where he had the boy cornered like a quivering prey, where the scent of fear was still strong in the air. Did Peter's senses betrayed him? They told him that the boy was a plaything. Naive and helpless.

Except that if that was true, then why didn't Peter smell the mountain ash? How could he have allowed that insignificant pup to trap him?

"What are you going to do about it?” Derek asks. “Let it go?"

"When have you ever seen me let anything go, nephew? I called the H-W Department this morning. They will have their sketch artist dropping by my office tomorrow."

“Sketch artist? So old school,” Laura remarks, scrunching her nose in disgust. “If you listened to me and had a few cameras installed throughout the mansion, you'd have at least a footage as a starting point, not a doodle from memory.”

Peter leans back in the couch, tilting his hips up and spreading legs to make himself more comfortable. He earns himself a few heated glances from people passing by, and it lifts his mood a bit. When she was alive, Talia always kept accusing Peter of vanity. It would be an insult to her memory to stop with it now that she's dead. “I value my privacy, Laura. I don't want some sniffing reporter stealing footage of my personal life.”

“You mean you wouldn't be able to discreetly order hookers anymore.”

Peter stares at his niece for a long moment. “It sometimes amazes me how lowly you think of me.”

“So that photo from last month of you with two other women was fake?”

“I don't have to pay people to have sex with me.”

And that is the problem, he thinks. In a rather twisted way. People (werewolves especially) fall to their knees and beg him for attention. Like puppies turning belly up and wiggling their tail until he gives them a rub. They see power and money when they look at him, wide-eyed and eager, they don't see a person. The Alpha status was the worst thing to inherit from his damn sister.

Laura takes a sip from her blue cocktail, watching Peter like a hawk. Because she knows. She can relate. Peter may be the Alpha but Laura and Derek are still a part of the main pack.

“Still. Don't you think you're exaggerating?” she says. “Sure, the kid tried to steal from you but you caught him in time. I'm pretty sure he won't try to do something that stupid again.”

“Oh, I'm sure of that,” Peter agrees. “But that boy sneaked into my home and tried to steal from me. Me. Making a fool of me in the process. So no, Laura, I won't let it go.”

Laura sighs. She dawns the rest of her drink and gives a loud whistle to one of her waiters. He's fast as a lightning bolt, taking her order and scurrying back to the bar. “You'll save yourself a lot of headaches if you stop being such a perfectionist freak.”

*

"Alpha Hale, I'm Detective Argent from Human-Werewolf Police Department. This is our sketch artist, Mr. Palmer, as you requested."

Mr. Palmer is a Beta, and he bares his throat in a courtly way of greeting an Alpha. The brusque human who introduced himself as Detective Argent ignores the werewolf custom and extends his hand for Peter to shake.

The man is in his early forties, well built, with self-contained demeanor and an air of austerity about him. The first thing the Detective did upon entering Peter's luxurious office was to survey the place with his eyes, filling away details to learn more about what kind of a man its owner was. And he doesn't seem to like what he's gathered so far judging by the tight pull of his lips.

Peter shows them to the couch, seating himself in the opposite armchair. They are interrupted right off hand when Peter's secretary Sandra rushes inside carrying a tray with coffees. She keeps her head bowed, still painfully shy around Peter even after a month of having worked for him. Her hands won't stop shaking, and Peter winces and sighs when she puts the tray down too hard and the coffee nearly sloshes over the edge of the cups.

She screws her eyes tightly shut for a brief second before she brings a fake smile to her cherry lips and hands one cup to Argent. "Strong black for you, sir." The Detective thanks her, and she turns to Palmer to give him his cup. "Two sugars and milk for you, sir."

The cup slips into Palmer's hands. The Beta is rather cute, Peter notes. When Palmer feels eyes on him, he raises his head. Peter gives him a sly grin and a wink to see Palmer redden like a tomato and lower his eyes quickly. The easiness that some people let themselves be toyed with is sometimes enough to have the small flame in Peter's body quickly die before it even has a chance to flare up.

"So, gentlemen," Peter says, when Sandra places the last cup in front of him and excuses herself, "I assume you already know about my little problem."

"Yes, my boss was... most insistent that we visit you asap.” There's a tightness in Argent's jaw as he says it, like the words leave a sour taste in his mouth. “According to him, you were ambushed in your house by a teenager armed with mountain ash."

The vein on Peter's forehead twitches. “That's a rather vague and inaccurate description of the incident, Detective. The thief was older than a teenager. I caught him before he could steal from me, yes, but sadly I didn't anticipate his ability to use mountain ash in such an efficient way. He slipped right through my fingers."

"But you caught him?" Palmer gapes at Peter.

"Excuse me, sir, but in that case, there seems to be no problem," says Argent.

Peter leans back in the armchair, crossing his ankle over the knee of his left leg. "I caught him, yes, but as I said, he... got away. He didn't manage to steal anything but the intent was there, together with the concern of breaking and entering."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hale," Argent says, and he doesn't sound sorry at all, "but since there's no theft to prove, I'm afraid there is no case. We have far more urgent cases going on than a kid breaking into your house."

"I think you don't understand what's going on very well, Detective—"

"But I do understand well, Mr. Hale, and I rest my case. This is more a matter of pride than an actual crime and therefore should be qualified by our department as a secondary problem."

"Look, Detective," Peter growls. He isn't going to bow out just because Argent thinks he's on a higher fucking moral ground. But they're interrupted by a knock on the door, and Sandra softly clears her throat. "Excuse me, Alpha Hale?"

"Yes," he snaps.

"I'm—I'm truly sorry to interrupt, but you have Ms. Blake on the line. She says it's urgent and it can't wait."

"Connect her," he says. A quick argument with Jennifer will be a nice distraction from this bullshit that Argent is trying to pull. Despite his companions' evident displeasure, Peter makes a quick apology and answers the office phone, saying sweetly, "What can I do for you, Jennifer?"

"Peter, explain something to me, please,” Jennifer replies in a saccharine voice. “Your secretary told me she emailed me your latest notes on the Boreanaz case on Saturday but I've never received them. And now she keeps insisting that they are not on the firm's hard drive anymore. Together with the rest of the documents. Tell me, who is more likely to be wrong–a certified attorney who's practiced law for nine year, or an office bitch whose speciality is making coffee?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “There's no need to be rude, Jennifer. She probably looked in the wrong file. I'm engaged otherwise right now but I'll have my housemaid send you the notes from my personal laptop.”

“Fine, I'm waiting. But you should still fire her.”

She hangs up without a word of goodbye. _Rude._

“My apologies,” Peter says to the two men. “I need to make one more call.” He can feel the anger welling up inside Argent. It's like a ticking bomb, ready to explode, but for now the Detective sits in silence.

Sam picks up on the second ring. “Alpha Hale's residence.”

“Sam,” Peter says, “be a dear and email Ms. Blake the documents from the Boreanaz file. You know the password to my personal laptop if I remember correctly.”

Sam grunts in irritation but Peter hears the stairs creak under her weight as she starts climbing up to the second floor. “Wait on the line,” she barks. She's an older lady, in her late sixties, and Peter has to often ask himself why he tolerates her. Although she does make delicious pasta. And bakes heavenly pies and chocolate muffins. And when she does laundry, the sheets smell like freshly cut grass.

The chair scrapes loudly against the pine floor when Sam sits down behind Peter's laptop in the study room. Peter waits through a couple minutes of breathing and typing, turning briefly to his company to shoot them a blinding grin. Sam is vital for her age, cooks deliciously and is unusually adept at working with computers. This is probably why he tolerates her.

“It's not here.”

He feels like someone has spilled a bucket of ice-cold water over his head. The grin slips from his lips. "What do you mean it's not there?"

"The Boreanaz file, Peter. It's not here.”

“Have you looked–”

“Of course I did,” she cuts him off impatiently. “It's not the first time I'm doing this work which, may I add, I'm not paid for. I know where the file was, and it's not here.”

Peter stares out of the high window. His office overlooks the city, and the streets, the cars, the people and the trees–everything looks so small down there. It has always made him feel powerful. As if up here, on the top, no can defeat him. As if up here, he is in absolute control.

“Thank you, Sam. That will be all for now.”

He puts the receiver down. Blood rushes to his head as he turns around to face his company. His eyes shine like rubies and his fangs dig into the bottom lip, coaching out a droplet of blood. Palmer squeaks like a little piggy, and even the Detective's eyes widen in shock.

"You wanted a real theft?” Peter says with a chill in his voice. “You just got one."

Argent puts the cup to his lips and takes a long sip.


	2. Round Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You, guys! I was overwhelmed by the positive reaction to the first chapter <3 Thank you for taking time to read this and commenting, you're all amazing! 
> 
> p.s. I don't know much about computers so everything in this chapter has only been thoroughly googled

Peter flings open the door to his study and storms into the room, making a dramatic entrance. To his disappointment, his pack's Beta Isaac doesn't even flinch; the boy's eyes are alight with excitement, fingers deftly dancing over the keyboard of Peter’s home laptop. He just casts a quick glance in Peter's direction and promptly goes back to ignoring him, immersed deep in a world of analysis and algorithms that Peter will never care enough to understand.

Peter takes his time to cross the room, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it aside, then notices a book he read yesterday lies dog-eared on the loveseat. Some greek tragedy. Probably. He stopped paying attention ten pages in. He picks it up and lets it fall closed before turning to Isaac.

"Are we going to communicate telepathically or do you have some actual words for me?"

Isaac clears his throat as if to bring himself back to the world of living, before he answers. "I wish I'd have better news for you, Alpha, but… whoever is responsible for this knew their shit well. I'm in contact with your IT department. The guys say that someone hacked into their system on the same day they broke into your house to clear out the files from your laptop. There's no trace left, the event logs are clear. To cut it short, I'm working with the guys to track the hackers–”

That brings Peter up short. “Hackers as in more than one?”

“There's a high possibility, yes. You can wipe your laptop clear no problem, that's child's play, but you need time and people to target the hard drive. The firewalls your firm uses are one of the bests you can buy on the market.”

Even with Isaac not facing his way, the strain and worry he's feeling are clearly visible in the tightness of his shoulders. Peter walks to the edge of the table and puts the book down. “We're trying to retrieve your documents,” Isaac says warily, keeping his eyes lowered, “but as of now, the chance of that happening is close to zero.”

“I'm not worried about retrieving the documents,” Peter says, watching with interest as the tension slips away from Isaac's body. Surely, Peter's not that hard on the people working for him, is he? He expects results but that doesn't mean he won't understand when something can't be done. ”The documents, we can put together again. What I'm worried about is in whose hands they might have ended.”

A tuft of Isaac's blond hair sticks to the sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Isaac reaches up and brushes it away. “What about the Detective who's working on it?”

“Argent? He has the thief's sketched portrait.”

Isaac bends his head over the laptop and starts typing again. He brings up several news articles and footages, and when Peter leans over the Beta to take a look, Argent's face or name peek at him from every opened window. Isaac scans through the contents, occasionally making a bored sound. “... divorced… one daughter… awarded for outstanding performance… case of serial murders…”

Isaac downloads everything into a newly created file named 'detective'. “And?” he prompts Peter.

“That's it. We don't have a name, and there were no fingerprints or DNA samples in the house for identification. I had to suffer through two days of people dressed like giant worms invading my home and they didn't even find anything.”

Isaac's cell phone lying next to the laptop pings with a new message. Isaac spares the lit screen a quick look. “Danny says hi.”

Peter makes a noncommittal sound. He doesn't want to think about Isaac's human friend. He needs to figure the _whys_ and _hows_ but he just can't seem to concentrate. He feels like when he was little, and he and Talia would take turns sitting on the swing in their backyard, a wooden plank suspended by a single rope from a thick oak tree branch. They would twist around until the cord was taut and then they would raise their feet and they would spin round. It's the same feeling Peter had back then, when the world blended together and his head was heavy with dizziness.

"You know, I keep thinking… why did he wake me up?”

There wasn't anything else missing from the house. His job was done. If the boy wanted to, he'd be gone without Peter ever noticing. He came for the files, and noisily stuffing his pockets with worthless possessions was a way to bring Peter downstairs. But why?

Isaac leans forward, curiosity flaring in his eyes. “What are you talking about?” He startles when Peter's claws sink into the leather of the chair Isaac is sitting on, and he shuffles closer to the edge, away from the rage of his Alpha.

“It seems that I lost a round in a game I wasn't aware of playing.”

“But you never lose anything.”

Peter glares down at Isaac, and the Beta gulps, Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He edges just a bit farther away from Peter.

Peter thinks about what to say. How to explain what possessed him to be so magnificently stupid. But his mind is blank, and the only word tickling him on the tip of his tongue is–

Intrigued.

“Keep me updated, Isaac,” is what comes out eventually.

Peter retracts his claws and steps away from the chair. He starts to walk out of the study, the stare of his gobsmacked Beta boring into his back.

*

Peter receives the call while he's having a dinner with Elisa, a sweet Beta from a neighboring pack whom Laura found for him through a mutual friend. Laura keeps insisting that an Alpha needs a mate. Unless they want to go gradually insane, that is. Peter disagrees but he's learned over time that it's easier to go on a date once every couple of months than to argue with his stubborn niece every time they see each other.

Elisa is sweet, graceful and funny, not allowing any awkward moments of silence to seep into their conversation. She's like an already polished diamond in a mine of blind dates otherwise brimming with rough stones. And still Peter can't bring himself to pay her the attention she deserves.

He thinks about the thief and how to catch him. He thinks about what he's doing right now, where he is. Lately all he's been doing is thinking about the thief. He might be going crazy actually.

Elisa tries to engage him in a discussion about human-werewolves rights, attempting to impress Peter with her in-depth knowledge, when the phone in his jacket vibrates. He apologizes, and to her evident displeasure picks up. "Peter Hale."

"Alpha Hale," the caller greets curtly. "Detective Argent, sir."

A picture of insolent smirk swims up before his eyes. Elisa looks at him curiously, sensing his excitement. She sips from her glass of chardonnay nonchalantly but her ears are perked up to catch every word. "I was worried you forgot all about me, Detective,” Peter says lazily, as if his breath isn't coming out faster and his body isn't thrumming with excitement. “Any news?"

"Something better," Argent replies. "He says his name is Jackson but his face matches the sketch and his… personality matches your description. I suggest you pay us a visit at the station."

Peter doesn't need to hear more. He ends the call and pushes himself up from the chair. He leans down to kiss Elisa on the knuckles of her hand as an afterthought. "This was very lovely but I'm afraid there are matters which need my immediate attention."

She frowns, disappointed and unable to hide it. "I understand, Alpha. It must be important, so I will wait for our next time."

Peter grins. "Oh, it's very important." He doesn't bother to correct her assumption that they are going to have a 'next time'.

*

Peter passes the front desk at the police station, gaze fixed on the door leading to the bullpen. The officer on duty calls after him but by the time he catches up with him, Peter is already through the door. It's not the first time he's been here representing a client so he doesn't need a babysitter telling him where to go or where to wait. He knows the place through and through by now.

His unexpected appearance in the bullpen causes a commotion. Every head bent over paperwork turns to him, every werewolf cries out a panicked “Alpha Hale!” and a young Beta trips over his own feet staring at Peter and collapses to the floor in a flailing heap of limbs.

Peter scans the room for Argent but doesn't see him anywhere. Then finally the world is set in motion again when an officer who looks like a 12-year-old boy in his dad's uniform jumps to him like an overeager puppy.

"Mr. Hale, right? I'm Deputy Liam Dunbar, sir. I was just on my way to the waiting area to see if you've arrived." The Deputy glances over Peter's shoulder to the waiting area, as if he's thinking about sending Peter there and then pick him up just to have this according to protocol.

"I'm here to see Argent," Peter says impatiently. “Can you show me to him?”

Liam scratches the back of his neck. "Yes, sir, of course. Sorry, sir. He's waiting for you. The Human-Werewolf Department has its offices all the way back, if you could follow me, please."

"Then what are we waiting for?"

“Right,” Liam mutters. He makes a dash around the desks, and Peter has no other choice but to follow the kid.

Liam leads him around the interrogation rooms where Peter expects them to end. But the Deputy doesn't stop and instead they continue down a long hallway painted a faded brown with offices on either side. They reach the end, and Liam knocks on the door of the only office with dropped blinds.

A surly, "Come in." allows them inside.

Liam enters first. "Alpha Hale is here, sir."

Peter steps in after him, and a pleased, quiet rumble vibrates through his chest when big amber eyes lock with his. _Finally_.

The boy doesn't sit on a chair but he's perched on Argent's table, legs dangling over the edge, obviously despite the Detective's great displeasure. Argent's arms are folded tightly across his broad chest as he tapps his foot furiously. "You can go," he growls at Liam, who hastily makes his retreat.

“I must confess, Detective,” Peter says, eyes never leaving the boy who watches him back like he's a fascinating science experiment, “that this is a rather unusual setting. I expected to join you in an interrogation room or the holding cells. Not in your private office.”

There's something off with Argent. His muscle twitches at the corner of his eye, his mouth forms a rigid grimace. And he won't look directly at Peter. “I wanted to have this dealt with discreetly.”

Curiouser and curiouser.

“May I ask why?”

Argent huffs out a wry grunt. “You may not.” He glares at the boy, whose grin stretches wider and his eyes gleam almost maniacally.

“This boy had me trapped in a mountain ash circle for an hour, and he used the oldest and stupidest trick to get me there. It was humiliating,” Peter says, and watches as Argent's mouth twitches involuntarily. “He's already made a fool of me. Let me help you so it doesn't happen again.”

Argent is still hesitant. He eyes the boy with furious glances as if he can bully him into disappearing, and the brat seems to be having the time of his life.

“Detective,” Peter presses, willing the man to look at him. Argent does, and finally, he yields with a heavy exhale.

“We arrested the kid for prostitution. Thankfully in time before anything could happen.”

Peter looks at the Detective with a frown, not sure how to feel about this piece of information. The boy makes it easier on him, turning the surprise into exasperation.

"Oh, come on, it wasn't prostitution. He wanted it, I was in the mood. Last time I checked, that's not a crime."

"Last time I checked, you don't pay for a fuck," Argent grits out.

The boy leans back and opens his legs just a bit more, jutting his hips forward. "That money's mine, he didn't give me anything."

"You're trying to tell me that you were about to have sex with a random stranger for fun.”

“It was love at first sight.”

“Even though this is quite entertaining,” Peter cuts in before the vein on Argent's temple bursts, “I'm still curious as to why the boy isn't being interrogated according to regulations.”

The boy grins at Argent. “Will you tell him or do you want me to have the honor?”

“No one is telling anything,” Argent says sharply. “This is an internal matter.”

Ooh. But Peter doesn't have to be told. He's made a living off deciphering people's desires and sins. He understands their incentives, and he knows how to crack them open to reveal the ugliness hidden beneath the skin.

"The john was a police officer, wasn't he?"

Argent turns to him. "I said it's none of your goddamn—"

"I'm merely trying to help you, Detective," Peter says. “I don't intend to use anything I hear in this room against you or the department.”

The boy watches their interaction with that obnoxious smug smirk Peter wants so badly to wipe off. Argent sighs. "Two officers were on a parole today in the outer district. Jefferson lost his partner… When he found him, the scumbag was with the kid." He glares at the boy. "You should be glad you were discovered in time. The streets aren't safe. God knows what could have happened to you. Don't you have a family to call? Or a friend who could help you?"

The boy frowns, an angry line forming between his eyebrows. "Don't you have a family you could shower with all that fatherly love and stop wasting it on a complete stranger?"

A bitter smell of anguish tickles Peter's nostrils. He thinks back to the files Isaac downloaded for him. About Argent being divorced and how badly that went down. About him being allowed to visit his only daughter twice a month.

"I'm just trying to help you,” Argent grits through his teeth. “If you don't know what's good for you, someone ought to step in."

"And that would be you?"

“I have contacts on people who could help you. You don't have to deal with this alone.”

The boy leans forward. He grips the edge of the table, knuckles turning white. “Deal with what? What exactly do you think it's happening here, Detective? You think that I'm some runaway with a sob story, waiting for Prince Charming to sweep in and carry me to the land of rainbows and puppies?

Argent barrels on like he isn't hearing him, taking a step toward the boy. “They could offer you a place to stay or a decent job to make money.”

“I. Don't. Need. A. Charity!” the boy yells.

" _Enough!_ "

Peter's raised voice has the desired effect of both shutting the kid up and scaring the shit out of him. Good. Maybe he's going to start taking this seriously. "Don't you see that he's just distracting you?” Peter tells Argent. “Was he left alone at some point?"

"So far not,” Argent says. “But I've been going to get Liam fill out the report on a missing teenager."

The boy rolls his eyes. "For Christ' sake, I'm not a fucking teenager. It's in the genes, they make me look young and sweet."

"Are you implying that it was intentional on his part?" Argent inquires, keeping his voice carefully level.

Peter turns to the boy. "He doesn't need to earn money by whoring. He's paid for other jobs. Like stealing confidential files, am I right?"

"Oh, you figured that one out, did you?" the boy says in a light voice, but Peter can hear his fast heartbeat. He hides it well but he's anxious.

"I couldn't have not to."

"I thought you were stupider, actually. Gotta say, I'm impressed."

Peter slides to the table. Puts his hands on either side of the boy's hips, caging him in. "Don't tempt me."

The boy doesn't move, and there's a challenge in his voice when he says, "To do what exactly?"

And Peter has never been the one to back down from a challenge. He grabs the boy by the front of his t-shirt, gaze falling briefly down to the soft lips before he catches himself. "What's your name? And I suggest you don't lie to me this time."

"It's Jackson."

Peter shakes the boy hard enough that his whole body jerks and the t-shirt makes a tearing sound. He ignores Argent hissing out his name in a warning. "I said, do not lie to me."

"Go screw yourself."

"Careful, pup. You're playing with fire.” And Peter feels heat rise in him, but he can't be sure if it's caused by anger or something else entirely. “Better think twice before you answer again. What is your real name?"

The boy's eyes narrow. "I don't have to tell you anything," he spits.

Peter can't remember anyone who has ever defied him this vehemently, with such a spirit, and it thrills him as much as it infuriates him. He feels the warmth of the boy's body, sees the angry spark in the depths of his eyes, and he wants more. Wants more of everything, like a starving man.

"That's enough, Hale," Argent speaks up from somewhere behind. Peter has to invest everything he has to tear his eyes off of the boy and turn to the Detective.

"Outside," Argent snaps.

Peter's eyes flash red. "Detective—"

"I said outside, now. Don't forget you're on the premises of a police station."

Peter takes a moment to weigh his options, but he eventually decides to let go of the boy. If he uses a bit too much strength and the boy gets knocked back by the force of it, sprawling on the table's surface with an undignified squeak, Argent doesn't comment on it. Peter straightens his suit and steps out through the door that Argent holds open for him.

Once outside, the Detective locates Liam, who's loitering as close as he dared to without being too obvious. "Dunbar."

Liam straightens in attention. "Yes, sir?"

"Get in there and keep an eye on our visitor."

"Yes, sir."

"You," Argent points an angry finger at Peter, "with me." He leads Peter into one of the other offices, where he leans heavily against a table and waits for Peter to close the door.

"Listen," Peter starts, but to his irritation is cut off.

"No, you listen, buddy. I don't know you but I can tell you're the kind of a man who although is a self-centered arrogant prick is usually cool-headed."

Peter quirks an eyebrow at the insult. He must confess that once he thinks past the fog of irritation clouding his mind, to have not just one but two people openly defy him in a day feels refreshing.

"That said, you can be the fucking Alpha of the world for all I care, but if you as much as lay a finger on that kid again, I'm gonna have your ass charged with assault." Argent watches the playful smirk tug at Peter's corners. His shoulders slump in defeat. “I shouldn't have let you inside.”

“May I remind you of the Human-Werewolf Treaty, clause five, by which you are bound to allow me access to an undergoing investigation?”

Argent narrows his eyes at him. “That law is outdated. No one adheres to it anymore. Werewolves have adapted to our way of life.”

“Despite that, the law still holds,” Peter reminds the man. “Maybe it's time humans adapted to our way in return.”

Argent's hand curls in a tight fist. “So you are saying that a kid should die just for trespassing?”

Peter heaves out a long-suffering sigh. “Please, even though we are in touch with our inner animal, that does not make us monsters. I was under the impression that working for this department, you'd have an open mind. The last case of a human killed for trespassing happened a hundred years ago.”

Argent opens his mouth to reply but this time it's Peter who's faster.

“Oh, there were murders, I don't deny that, but werewolves can be corrupted just as easily as humans.”

The man gives him a blank stare. “That's what I'm afraid of.”

“Come on, Detective,” Peter says steadily, “be reasonable. I just wish to hear the truth from that human child. All he's been doing so far was laughing in our faces."

“We will get the truth but it's going to be done using the official procedure.”

“You don't have anything against him to file charges so you can't hold him here for longer than 48 hours. But if you let me speak to him in private, I will have his confession under an hour.”

Argent watches him with a mix of irritation and disgust, but before he can reply, wide-eyed Liam bursts into the office. "I'm so sorry, sirs! Alpha. Sir. Jackson—he seemed to have a panic attack. I helped him calm down but then I went to fetch a glass of water for him and—and… I was gone just for a second and the door was locked, I swear, but he—"

Argent shoves past the officer. Peter runs after the Detective, following him into the empty office. There's a note, on the table and as Argent gets out of the office, yelling at Liam along the way, Peter picks it up.

_Until next time, Alpha!_

He crumples the piece of paper in his hand.

*

The club is dimly lit, the beat of music too loud to hear a word properly, and every dark corner reeks of sweat and arousal. Peter skipped the long line of people waiting outside to get in, and is heading straight for the usual meeting spot. Laura is already there, waiting for him on one of the bigger leather couches, drinking a bright blue cocktail.

"There's my favorite Hale!" she cheers to him, already slightly buzzed.

Peter sits on the couch opposite her, resting his head against the back. He looks up at a waiter when he arrives. “Martini laced with wolfsbane, and make it wet,” he orders for himself. The waiter is a werewolf and he's cute, with short brown hair and dark eyes. The staff uniform suits him well, too; tight black jeans and a bowtie on a naked glittered chest.

The waiter winks at him. “I will,” he promises. He adds an unnecessary swing to his hips on his way to the bar.

Peter turns to Laura. "Do you ever work? Every time I come here, you are having a drink or leering over you own staff.”

“The perks of being the owner,” she grins. “I'm the boss, I can do whatever I damn well please without people stepping up to me. Don't you do the same in that little law firm of yours? Besides, we are the Hale pack. Money from the business is just a sweet, sweet bonus.”

“What you just described is a form of sexual harassment. And unlike you, I get bored quite easily. The firm keeps me from losing my mind.”

“Which you know, a mate would do the same job without the long hours.”

His martini arrives and Peter drinks it in one go. Laura makes a face. “If you aim for getting shit-faced, I recommend shots of tequila. This is wasting my bartender's skills.”

“There's no finesse in shots. Bring me another one,” he tells the waiter. “And bring my niece another of whatever she's having.”

The waiter nods and leaves. Laura contemplates Peter's mood before asking, “How did you find Elisa?”

Peter shrugs. “She was pleasant.”

“Pleasant,” she repeats. “That's it?”

“Our date was interrupted,” Peter says. “Detective Argent found my thief.”

Laura's eyebrows rise. “That was fast.”

Peter presses his lips together. “He escaped again.” At least nothing went missing from Argent's office. Although that robbed Peter of the opportunity to give Argent the 'I told you so.'

“From a guarded police station?” To her credit, Laura doesn't laugh this time. On the contrary, she looks intrigued. “Did you get his name? Or did you at least find out what he did with the Boreanaz file?”

“No and no,” Peter sighs. “Jennifer is freaking out. She's stomping through the firm and terrorizing everyone who gets in her way.”

“From what I overheard, the case is a deal breaker for her.”

Peter nods, drinks another martini when it arrives. Orders a new one. “And for our firm. I've never told you about it, have I?”

Laura shakes her head.

“Our client inherited a grain company but his two siblings challenged their father's will. Apparently it was drawn up when he wasn't of sound mind.” Peter chuckles. “They are all like sharks, really. The wiped documents contained details of the case, statements of the trustees and executors of the will, information Jennifer and I molded together over the past couple of months. We had everything. The case was won before the court even began. Now though… I suspect they not only cleared out the files but they also shared them with the other party. Jennifer has already started anew but this time we're going to be at a disadvantage.”

“But that's cheating,” Laura says, sipping from her drink.

“Of course it is, but the police will never connect the attack with the opposing party. Isaac and the IT department haven't found any traces and we have no physical evidence.”

They fall silent after that, and by the time the waiter arrives again, Peter is in a sour mood. So when the Beta gives him an unbashful once-over and asks, "Can I get you anything else, Alpha?", Peter grins back at him. Maybe this will cheer him up.

Laura rolls her eyes. “At least wait until he's finished the shift, so I don't have to fire another one,” she tells Peter.

The waiter's shift ends in two hours, which is enough time for Peter to have a few more drinks, dance with a few people and obtain a few phone numbers to call on a rainy day. After the waiter joins him, it's only a matter of a brief small talk, and Peter has the man on his knees in the back alley.

"My name's Jack, by the way," the waiter informs him unnecessarily, but he's working Peter's zipper open and taking his cock out, giving it a long swipe with a tongue, so Peter forgives him.

"Sure, pup," Peter says, and he has no idea where it came from. He never calls other people by anything that isn't their name… Except—when he looks down, he sees dark hair, fair skin and amber eyes twinkling in the street light. With a stifled moan he grips the Beta by the hair and shoves his cock as far as it can go into the wet heat. The waiter groans, the vibrations running pleasantly through Peter's body. He jerks his hips forward without a care.

"That's right, take it," he murmurs, thumping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. "Who's got the upper hand now, hm?" The words spill from his mouth almost against his will but Peter lets them flow. The waiter is surprisingly into the rough treatment as well, and when Peter grips the short spikes tighter, he keens nicely.

Peter comes shortly after that, pulling out and spilling on the waiter's face, holding him firmly so he can't turn away.

"Thank you," he says, once the haze fades away, appreciating a job well done. He tucks himself back into the trousers and zips up.

"Um, what about me?" The waiter says hesitantly, aware he's in the presence of an Alpha, just as it should be. His face is covered in Peter's come, and he looks ridiculous now; eyes a dull shade of brown, skin too tanned, hair too light.

"What about you?"

Peter turns on his heel and leaves.


	3. Round Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for your comments, kudos and bookmarks, they mean the world to me!! Also I apologize for the wait, there was a lot to edit in this chapter. The next one will be up quicker!

The next couple of weeks pass by in a blur of activity. It's easier to run himself ragged than to rest, to admit defeat, and when later in life Peter will think back to this period of time, he won't be able to recall a single vivid thing he did. It will all be a smudge, a turmoil of emotions.

He works relentlessly, takes lunch on the fly, then works some more. He collapses on his bed a couple of hours before dawn breaks out, exhausted and listless. Every morning he has to force himself to get up and repeat the cycle. He misses several meetings with his niece and nephew. Derek stops by, taking a break from his writing (a new supernatural thriller or something; Derek never shares the plot until the outline is thoroughly finished) to check on him. Peter kicks him out and Derek stops talking to him, but Peter can't bring himself to apologize. He's never done it before and the prospect of starting with it now is unappealing.

Derek is usually fast to melt and forgive after a fight, but not this time. He is a grown-up boy, it seems, and he doesn't need Peter's approval anymore. As always and probably just to spite him, Laura takes the side of her brother, and now the two most important people in his life aren't talking to him.

When Peter thinks his ill mood can't get any worse, Argent calls.

“So basically,” Peter says, careful to restrict his strength and not break yet another cell phone, “you're telling me you still have no lead?”

Argent's voice sounds like rough sandpaper when he replies, “Not basically. That's exactly what I'm telling you.”

“Detective, if I may give you some advice. Don't open your mouth if you have nothing to say.”

Peter hangs up before Argent can respond, closing his eyes momentarily. When he opens them, he gazes up the stairs, where his bedroom is with a soft bed and silk sheets. With a scoff he turns away, unable to bring himself to climb the stairs. He's exhausted but even though his body needs to rest, his mind needs it to move, and will keep him up all night long. He’ll keep dozing in fitful spurts which in the end will only make him feel more tired, and he doesn't need that right now.

What he does need is an entirely different question.

"This is boring," a voice says lazily.

Peter blinks, bleary-eyed, to realize that he's walked into the living room. And he's not alone. There is a person sitting on the couch, fingers smoothing over open pages of a book that seems vaguely familiar.

The boy lifts his head. “Greek tragedies, really? Can you be even more pretentious?” He shuts the book and puts it aside, allowing Peter a glance at the cover. This particular book should be lying on the desk in his study.

“Did you stick your nose where it doesn't belong again?”

The boy shrugs. He looks so bonelessly comfortable on Peter's couch, in Peter's home, like it's the most logical place for him to be. “You were taking a long time and I felt too lazy to crack your Netflix password. I wonder... would it be bigbadalpha or pervertedpuppy?”

Peter shakes off the heavy stupor wrapped around him. He starts forward but the boy rolls off the couch and hops around it to the other side to put a barrier between them. He raises his hands placatingly. Like Peter's the unreasonable one.

"Let's not make any rash decisions, okay?"

"I'm not about to,” Peter says grimly. “On the contrary, I have been planning this for a very long time. To the smallest bloodstained detail."

“Wow, you can get really intense, you know? You should work on your people skills, politeness goes a long way.”

Peter takes another step forward, circling the couch and enjoying the way the boy sputters and backs up further. "Okay, fine, less talking. I get it."

Peter stops. The boy stops.

"What are you doing here?"

“No beating about the bush, huh? Okay then.” The boy rubs the back of his head, and it's the only visible sign that he's jittery underneath the irritating mask of casualness. "You were right. In Argent’s office. And you fucked up my plans, so I didn't deliver what my boss wanted me to deliver."

"Let me guess," Peter sneers, "he's not happy with you."

"He wouldn't be the first."

 _Really._ Peter's nails grow into long claws.

"Yeah, well." The boy licks his bottom lip, eyeing the claws apprehensively. "I need to lay low, just for a couple of weeks. And your house has a kick ass swimming pool."

If only Talia could see this. She would never let Peter live it down. He has always been the quick-witted one, the one to have a stinging reply for everything. Now it seems he's reduced to silence while the boy keeps on rolling out surprise after surprise.

The boy eyes him with a speculating gaze. “I have friends I could turn to but I don't want to endanger them.”

“So you've come to me?”

“So I've come to you.”

He's telling the truth the same way he told Peter about the security system being off. He's telling the truth by not telling a lie. And it's probably for the same reason he lured Peter out of his bedroom when he could have sneaked in and out of the house without getting caught. There is more, but Peter can't for the love of himself figure it out.

"What makes you think I will let you stay here and not send your—however lovely—ass behind the bars after all the trouble you've caused?"

The boy chuckles darkly. “The trouble I've caused? Look at you, thinking you're better than us mere commoners. You should get off your high horse, Alpha. Did you meet with Mr. Jones yesterday by any chance?”

Shock washes through Peter, and it's such a rare feeling that all he can do for a couple of seconds is stare at the boy. He did meet with the judge presiding over Boreanaz case. To slide a bulging envelope under his eager hands and postpone the hearing, but he did it after hours, and the only possible witness is the security guard or the Indian rubber tree in the man's office.

“How do you know?” _Are you here to threaten me_ , he wants to ask.

The boy rocks back on his heels, looking damn pleased with himself. “I could talk your ear off all night about the things I know and how I know them and what I'm gonna do with them. But that's not what I'm here for.”

Peter quirks his eyebrow. ”You already told me what you're here for. What you haven't said yet is how you plan to pay for it.”

The boy taps a fast, frantic rhythm over the couch's headrest before he raises his head and peers at Peter through dark lashes. “I can offer you my help.”

“What kind of help?”

“I will provide information,” he says, jutting out his chin in an adorable display of stubbornness. “In exchange for that, you'll let me stay here for a few weeks, feed me and give me access to your library and Netflix.”

Peter draws closer. There are dark circles of weariness under the boy's eyes that he didn't notice before. “That must be one hell of information if I'm willing to hand out the access to my Netflix account.”

The boy snorts and glances sideways, allowing Peter a full view of a finger-shaped bruise on the nape. Before Peter can think about it, his thumb brushes lightly over the purple spots on the skin. It's warm on the touch. Tender. The boy startles and slaps his hand away. The look he aims at Peter is angry and defiant, and has words catching in Peter's throat, words he built his life on.

Peter sighs. “Provide me with information,” he says, and sits on the couch, gazing up at the boy. Waiting.

The boy clears his throat loudly, like he has an audience of a thousand instead of one. He glances thoughtfully at the coffee table next to the couch, and Peter can decipher his thoughts like the best mind-reader just by the mischievous spark in the amber eyes.

“Don't even think about it.”

The boy looks back at him. “I'm not.” He frowns. “How can you tell?”

Peter ignores the question. “If you use my expensive coffee table as an impromptu stage, your dirty sneakers will leave mud on it and I will have to kill you before you even start with your story. Which, I think it's safe to assume, isn't the goal here.”

The boy snickers as if what Peter said is somehow funny and not a death threat. “Alright,” he says, and thankfully not tries to get on the table. “Imagine this: A young man, let's call him Larry—”

“Larry?”

“Do you want me to tell the story or not, smarty pants?”

Peter motions for him to continue, keeping his mouth shut. It takes a lot of effort.

“So. Larry comes from a poor family. Parents earn minimum wage, kids in the school are pricks and make fun of him. One day Larry is bored out of his mind so he goes for a walk. He wanders down a shady street and there's a guy and a girl, and the guy is giving the girl something small and the girl hands over a couple of bills in return. When she's gone, Larry goes to the guy and asks him about it. I know it sounds reckless,” the boy says before Peter can point out _Larry'_ s stupidity. “But he's got no friends. Parents ignore him. He is bored and angry at life, so what's there for him to lose, right?”

“Is this going to take long?” Peter says, making a show of looking down at his watch. The one which the boy had in his pocket over a month ago.

“I'm getting there. So the guy naturally shoots Larry down but Larry is persistent and he likes the prospect of a job where you get a shit-ton of money for handing out little packets of cocaine while feeling like the king of the world, and eventually he gets the guy talking. And here's the gold. The guy is just a seller, and he needs to keep his mouth shut if he wants to continue working in the business. But maybe he can—for a small favor—show Larry to his boss. A boss who works under someone else, who's, as it turns out, directly tied up with—wait for it—two prodigious children of a well-known founder of a well-known grain company.”

With a rush of hope Peter rises to his feet and circles around the coffee table to reach the boy. “Are you serious?”

The boy gives a wry grin. “You bet your sweet ass I am.”

“But one testimony isn't going to be enough. There's no direct connection.”

“Then this is your lucky day because me and my friends don't have just one testimony. We have much, much more. And I'll give it to you like the best gift you've ever received, giant red ribbon, DIY tag and everything. If you let me stay here, that is. You will make the front page and this time, it's not gonna be a gossip magazine.”

Peter contemplates the boy, his smart mouth and flailing hands. “One has to wonder if you knew about the dirt before you decided that the best course of action was to steal the files.”

The boy cocks his head to the side, a playful smile tugging up the corners of his lips. “One doesn't need to know.”

“Don't play games with me, pup.”

“This is not a game,” he replies firmly. “It's very straightforward, actually. My boss got contacted by a client with a proposition to destroy your case against them, and he put us on it. We did the job and got paid for it. What happens next is out of our hands.”

“What about that police officer who likes street kids? It seems to me that considering your skills there are easier ways to break into a police station. You didn't have to bet everything on luck and a good timing.”

“You know,” the boy says with a brief smile, a flicker that's both amusement and scorn, “I was once told that if you ever witness someone doing something wrong, it's your responsibility to intervene. Otherwise you're as bad as the person doing it.”

“That's a stupid rule,” Peter says bluntly.

The boy nods, looking dazed and strangely euphoric, his eyes glowing. Like there's a memory scraping against the back of his brain that brings him joy, but it's that kind that hurts because it happened a long time ago. Like when Peter remembers Talia, the preserve, deep woods, and home.

“I like to keep my karma clean. The cop was a fucking asshole and he got away with it every single time because the kids were too afraid to speak up. They thought no one would listen.”

Peter has always thought karma was a spiritual nonsense. He says so aloud. The boy grins. “That's why you'll be reborn as a dung beetle and I as a phoenix.”

Peter's tired brain can't work out any appropriate retort, so to save himself from the inevitable destiny of losing this battle, he keeps his mouth shut and a long silence falls over them. He's mildly surprised when the boy sighs and extends his hand. "Stiles. That's my name."

Stiles doesn't sound like an actual name, but the heartbeat doesn't lie, so neither does Stiles. Just like that, the boy is giving him the most powerful weapon to be possibly used against himself without batting an eyelash. Because now Peter can add an unusual name to this lovely face and have Isaac come up with a real person with a background.

In a split second Peter comes to a decision. He grabs Stiles' wrist and yanks the boy to him. His other hand grabs Stiles' chin and tilts his head back. "I will let you stay here for no longer than a month," he breathes against Stiles' mouth. "Then I want the files, and you will get out of my hair. If you steal something, if you lie to me about anything, or if you fuck with me again, you will regret the day you were born. Do you understand?"

The kid's face is one of barely concealed glee. There's a triumph in those pretty eyes and his mouth twitches upwards on the left, dimpling his cheek.

Peter gives him a good shake. “Do you understand?" he growls.

Stiles nods and Peter lets him go. He must be insane to agree to this. "Don't move," he says, walking off. He makes it fast, doesn't want to leave Stiles alone long enough for him to mess with Peter's things. God knows what damage he'd done before Peter came home.

When Peter returns, Stiles is surprisingly in the same spot. Peter steers him up the stairs and into the guest room, sitting him down on the bed. Stiles takes a look around the small room, and his anxiety is like a sour taste in Peter's mouth. Despite his obvious discomfort, the boy wiggles his eyebrows at him.

"Won't you at least buy me a dinner first?"

Peter takes out handcuffs from his back pocket, locking one end around Stiles' right wrist, the other around the bed leg before Stiles can wriggle away.

"Hey!" the boy protests. "This is gonna get real uncomfortable real fast. And do I even want to know where did you get these, you kinky bastard?"

Peter grins, all teeth and no sweetness. Underneath the anxiety the boy reeks of a heavy-limbed tiredness that Peter himself feels. They'll both benefit from a good night's sleep before their next conversation. And there will be one. Peter wants answers. "You don't want to know,” he says. “Now I suggest you be quiet or I'm going to have to gag you. And yes, I have a gag, big and red that's going to look very pretty on you."

Stiles snaps his mouth shut. Peter takes a moment to enjoy the nice view the boy makes then shuts the door and goes to bed.

*

The next day Peter goes about his morning like he normally would, with the exception of a well-rested body and a much lighter mood. He's a creature of habit, so he can let his mind wander while his hand automatically reaches for a toothbrush in the cabinet above the sink, a tube of hair gel, or a soap in the shower. He can't figure out what to do with Stiles, but even as his brain is telling him he's making mistake to let the boy reside in his house, the disquietness he's been carrying with himself for weeks has finally subdued.

It promptly blossoms back (together with white-hot anger) when he opens the door to the guest room to find it empty. The bed is made, the sheets are tucked in. The cuffs are on the floor, one end still hooked up to the bed's leg. Peter whirls around and storms down the stairs. He can't think of a single reason why Stiles would run away. It was Stiles who came to Peter, asking for help.

Even in his anger Peter remembers to concentrate on the surrounding sounds. He's overwhelmed by the flood of relief when he catches a faint, even heartbeat that means Stiles is still in the house. It brings him down the rest of the stairs and into the living room. There, Stiles is curled up on the couch, mouth slightly open and body lax in sleep. He's hugging a pillow like it's the softest, cuddliest teddy bear.

Peter comes to him and pokes him in the cheek, maybe a bit more roughly than is necessary. Stiles bats his hand in Peter's general direction, making a cute sound of protest. Peter pokes him again. "Stiles."

Stiles groans but opens his bleary eyes. He stiffens at the sight of Peter but relaxes once he realizes where he is. His eyes start to droop again.

"Why are you on the couch?" Peter asks, annoyed.

Stiles groans. He tries to turn away but Peter stops him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Use your big words.”

Stiles blinks at him, eyes heavy but more lucid. "I like to choose my own place to sleep. I'm not your house pet," he mumbles. "Now be a lamb and kindly fuck off, I need my beauty sleep. Not everyone is born as pretty as you, Alpha."

Peter stares down at the boy in irritation. Stiles doesn't even wait until the air is clear to fall asleep again. He's snoring within seconds, expecting Peter to just listen to him and kindly fuck off instead of strangling him like he'd much rather do.

Peter shakes his head and goes to the kitchen, telling himself that he's not doing it to comply with Stiles' demand, but because he has yet to make a few calls before he leaves the house. Plus arguing with a sleepy Stiles will probably be even more tedious than arguing with a conscious Stiles.

First he calls Sam and tells her to expect a guest in the house. She sounds baffled but thankfully, she doesn't ask too many questions. Then he calls an agency offering protective services he turns to from time to time. It's at short notice but given his status, they make an exception for him. The last call is made to Isaac, telling him to come to Peter's office as soon as possible.

He leaves the house in silence with one last glance at Stiles' sleeping form. Every time he saw the boy, he was overspilling with energy. He was like a whirlwind, sweeping in everyone and everything in reach. He looks peaceful on the couch, and Peter feels an irrational urge to brush away the hair falling into his closed eyes.

Peter takes out his cell phone and snaps a picture. He walks out into the soft sunrise with a content smile on his face.

*

It's a bright day, and Peter wants nothing more than to be back in the preserve, in the body of a majestic wolf, running through the woods side by side with Talia and her kids. It's a deep-rooted desire for Alphas to be with their family. Their pack. But what Peter misses even more is the stillness, the peacefulness of the place. There were no responsibilities, no boredom. Everything seemed clearer and more defined. Simple. Sodden ground beneath his paws. Scent of bark and fresh green leaves after a shower of rain in his lungs. 

He goes to the high window and looks out, squinting against the glaring sun. Behind his back, the door to his office opens. “Mr. Lahey is here, sir,” Sandra informs him.

“Let him in.”

He can almost smell it, it's just on the edge of his senses, there, waiting for him; if he closes his eyes and concentrates hard enough, he is home.

"Alpha."

With that one word Peter is back to a city shrouded in smog: cars below are honking, people shouting, arguments angry and meaningless. He turns his back to the window to look at Isaac.

The Beta drops on a couch in the seating area, propping his feet on the coffee table. (And what is it with everyone eager to put their shoes on a brand new furniture?) Isaac is texting someone, and when his phone pings with a reply, he chuckles. “Danny's trying out the new restaurant down the street for breakfast. The one with the giant statue of a horse at the front? He says that it's even crazier inside. Wanna see a pic?”

Peter sits in the armchair opposite Isaac. “No,” he says, staring pointedly at Isaac's feet. Isaac's body goes rigid with realization of where he is and with whom he's speaking, and he can't be fast enough to slide his feet down.

“I have a different photo for you,” Peter says. He takes out his cell phone and shows Isaac the photo he took in the morning. “His name is Stiles.”

Isaac raises an eyebrow. He tries to look unfazed but the faint flush visible on his face is unmistakable. "Okay, he's cute, but you know that's more of Danny's department rather than mine."

“I want you to find any information you can on him.”

Isaac takes the phone from Peter's hand gingerly. He stares at the photo for a long moment. "Do I need to be worried the kid's asleep on your couch?"

"He's the human thief I was searching for. And he wouldn't let me take a photo of him while he's awake, now, would he?"

Isaac sends an MMS with the photo to his number. He puts the cell phone on the table, frowning in contemplation. "Permission to speak freely, Alpha?"

Peter cocks his head to one side. Isaac has always supported him, no matter what, and Peter could count on one hand all the times Isaac questioned his judgement. Maybe this brings memories. Isaac was a teenager when Peter met him curled up in a plastic chair at a police station. He was a thin boy, terrified and battered, but he was also defiant and angry at the world. To this day Peter has no idea what prompted him to leave his client waiting in the interrogation room, but he sat down on the chair next to Isaac and begun talking to him.

“As long as you remember your place,” Peter says now.

Isaac nods jerkily. He has grown into a confident young man but from time to time, Peter gets glimpses of the boy Isaac used to be; cagey little animal always trying to make himself look smaller, invisible. Even now, after all those years, he's scared that someone will come and take this world, this dream, away from him. “Why is the thief who broke into your house and ruined your case sleeping on your couch?" Isaac asks.

Peter thinks it's too early for this conversation. "He needs a place to hide for a couple of weeks.”

Isaac sends him an incredulous look. "And you let him stay just because?"

"He offered valuable information in exchange."

Isaac rubs a hand over his face. "Valuable information, huh?" He gazes at Peter with a grim smile. “Are you fucking him?”

Peter's eyes flash red. “Careful, Isaac.”

“I'm sorry, Alpha,” the Beta mumbles hurriedly. He keeps on pressing, though. Stubborn. Loyal. “I try to look out for you. I always do. And you don't know jack about the extent of the mess the kid's in. Or do you? Do you know who hired him to steal the files? Who he worked with? Is he still working with them? And why has he come to you specifically?”

"That's where I need you to step in, Isaac,” Peter fills the tiny space between Isaac's one breath and the next. “It's not like I threw all caution together with my brain out the window. I'm counting on you with this."

Isaac sighs in defeat. There's still doubt in his eyes but he doesn't say another word of protest. Peter knows he will do his best. Because even though it's absolutely misplaced, Isaac is still convinced that he owes Peter his life. Peter has stopped trying to reason with him a long time ago. He's not anyone's hero and he's not the good man Isaac has him for.

But some people just don't listen.

*

The sun's long evening rays bath his back when Peter enters the house. After having spent the day on his feet or behind the laptop, he's finally home and can breathe again. A waft of air, warm, chocolate-laden, fills his nostrils, and a muffled laughter reaches his ears. He follows its trail. It leads him into the kitchen, where three heads are bent over a baking tray of cookies on the kitchen island.

Boyd is the first to snap to attention. “Alpha Hale!” he exclaims, stiffening in alarm.

Stiles pokes him in the ribs. “At ease, soldier.”

Sam giggles like she's a teenager and not almost twice Peter's age.

Peter stands in the doorway and looks at them, crossing his arms. “You,” he starts with Boyd, “are hired to stand on guard. You,” he tells Sam, “are my employee. You're supposed to come in, clean the house, water the plants, cook the dinner and go home. And you,” he turns to Stiles, who's casually leaning against the island and waits with raised eyebrows for the words Peter has troubles gathering. “… I can't even begin to find words suitable enough to describe you.”

Stiles snorts. He stuffs his mouth full of a cookie. “Is that a compliment?”

Peter watches with a strange kind of detachment as a shower of crumbs descends on the polished floor. “No, it's most certainly not.” He takes off his tie and a jacket and folds them over a barstool.

“Sam was teaching us how to do cookies,” Stiles says proudly.

“For the last time,” Sam says, “you don't do cookies. You bake cookies. You bake cookies, you roast meat or chicken, you steam vegetables or grill fish.”

“Or cheese,” Stiles says. “Ooh, grilled cheese sandwich! I love me some grilled cheese sandwich. Do you love grilled cheese sandwich, Frank?”

Peter turns to the person Stiles is referring to, but there's just Boyd. “Frank?”

“I'm Frank,” says Boyd.

“You're—”

“He's the bodyguard, Peter,” Stiles says, like that somehow explains it. But then it clicks, and Peter feels compelled to roll his eyes.

“That is a terrible movie.”

Stiles brightens up. “So you do have a life.”

“Watching movies does not equal living a life.”

“So doesn't working from seven to,” Stiles glances at the clock. “Eight. Jesus, you must be dying on your feet. That's like a slavery.”

“It's running your own firm. It's being responsible.”

“It's being boring.”

Peter presses a palm against his temple. He's starting to miss his weeks of working daze. It was dull but at least there was order to it. Dealing with Stiles feels like someone took Peter on a stroll through a never-ending mirror maze then left him there. Now Peter has to navigate his way back out. It's exhausting and impossible.

Sam pushes off the island with a soft chuckle. She runs a smoothing hand over the short spikes of her greying hair. “I see you have everything under control. I'll get going then.”

“You should have done that three hours ago.”

“She’s stayed because I asked her to,” Stiles says with a petulant frown. “If you want to blame someone, blame me.”

“Don't worry about it, honey.” Sam gives Stiles a warm, motherly smile. “Peter's all bark and no bite,” she says, and saunters out of the kitchen.

Peter looks over at Boyd, who's still standing at attention. At least someone in this room knows how to behave professionally. “Who is replacing you overnight?”

“The agency is sending Raeken,” Boyd replies. “I think he worked for you before.”

Peter nods. “Yes, I remember.”

He doesn't particularly like Theo. He prefers Boyd but he can't have the man here 24/7. And Theo does a good job. He's always close at hand if Peter needs him, but he's also practically invisible when it's required of him to just observe from a distance. Peter's issue with the man is a matter of chemistry. Theo is a human.

“I'll wait for him outside to brief him on the current situation,” Boyd says into the silence. “He will be patrolling the outside grounds until seven in the morning. Then I take over. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes,” Peter says. “Good. You can go, then.”

He watches Boyd's broad shoulders as the man leaves. Boyd is built like a mountain, and both he and Theo are resilient and capable, but is that going to be enough against whoever might come after Stiles? Is that even someone who would go against an Alpha? They've done it before, had Stiles break into Peter's house. They can do it again. The only thing Peter needs to decide is whether he will cower in the corner or stand with his head held high. And given how he usually is, the answer isn't that hard to figure out.

When they're alone, Stiles offers him a cookie. Peter ignores the outstretched hand and instead takes out a container with lasagna from the fridge. He places it in a pan and puts it in the still warm oven. He can feel Stiles' eyes burning holes into his back while he closes the oven and presses a button to turn it on.

“So,” Stiles says eventually, “you had me babysitted.”

Peter turns around to see a flicker of emotion in Stiles' eyes but it's gone so quickly he doesn't have time to analyze it. “Were you afraid I'd what—run away? Rob the family safe?"

"Boyd is out of discussion,” Peter says. “He will stay, and during the night he will be replaced by Theo. Take it or leave.” Peter makes a long pause, a mocking smile curling up the corners of his mouth. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You don't have anywhere else to go."

It's a risk but Peter believes it will pay off. Getting Stiles cornered is the only way to get him to accept Peter, to make him listen. "Haha," Stiles grits out, "kick a man when he's down."

Peter leans back against the counter. “You didn't seem to have a problem with Boyd.”

“It's the principle, Peter. I like to make my own decisions. I've had enough of—” he stops, grinds his teeth together then starts again. “I don't appreciate someone telling me what to do or where to go.”

“Where to sleep,” Peter supplies. Stiles gives him a challenging look.

“Yes.”

They fall silent, staring at each other, and Peter isn't even sure what they expect from each other by this point. He looks away only when the smell of lasagna is strong in the air. He takes the pan out and serves himself a portion on a plate. Stiles clears his throat.

“Something on your mind?” Peter asks sweetly over his shoulder.

“Aren't you going to be a good host and feed me?”

“If you want anything, serve yourself,” Peter says, putting his plate on the island and sliding gracefully onto a barstool.

Stiles scrapes the rest of the lasagna on a plate, all the while shooting Peter glances to make sure he won't be stopped. He sits opposite Peter. “Anything? Like literally anything?” he teases. “What goodies are we talking about exactly? Just to be on the safe side.”

His eyes travel down over Peter's torso. It's an invitation, but Peter is sure Stiles doesn't know what he's offering. Slowly, he leans over the island and brings his face down to Stiles' neck. Stiles sits frozen, a shudder running through him. Peter breathes deeply through his nose. He smells anxiety and a dumb kind of stubbornness, but no sweet scent of arousal.

“You need to stop doing this,” he murmurs against Stiles' skin. When he draws back, Stiles watches him with wide eyes so very dark that Peter could lose himself in them. “I'm not a good man. I will not hesitate to make use of your offer. So let me give you the first advice for free. Say it out loud only if you mean it.”

Stiles' hands curl into fists. He bites his lower lip as if to stop himself from snapping at Peter. “I know,” he says tersely, pushing his plate away, “that you are not a good man. Why do you think I chose you?” Somehow, it sounds like Stiles isn't talking only about choosing Peter's house as a hiding place.

Peter pushes the plate back toward Stiles and waits until Stiles takes the fork in his hand and digs into the food again. “According to your words, you didn't have anywhere else to go.”

“It's partly because of that. And partly because apparently you're the _head honcho_ ,” the boy repeats Peter's words with a grin, “and because you're not the type of person to cower in front of others.”

“By others… you mean your boss.”

“My ex-boss,” Stiles says around a mouthful of lasagna. He wipes his lips on his sleeve.

Peter makes a face. “I wonder how you could have ever been able to seduce anyone.”

Stiles wiggles his eyebrows at him. Peter watches the boy for a long moment, the clinks of forks the only sounds in the kitchen, before he speaks again. He opens his mouth to ask who Stiles' employer is—was—but what comes out is an utter surprise to both of them. "Who is Jordan? And Jackson?"

Stiles raises his head at that, an incredulous expression creeping in. “Why?”

Peter can't believe he didn't ask about Stiles' employer. In that moment his mouth was detached from his brain, an uncommon and peculiar experience (though with Stiles by his side, it seems to be happening more often than not). Biting off a curse, Peter decides to go with it. “People usually use aliases based on someone they know. It's easier to familiarize themselves with the personas.”

“I don't have to tell you anything,” Stiles says. But he doesn't deny it, which in itself is all the confirmation Peter needs.

“No, you don't.”

“But you have my face, my name, and a ton money to throw around. You can find it out without asking me.”

“Probably.”

Stiles grits his teeth. "I kind of hate you."

“Not so much as not to share meal with me,” Peter smirks.

Stiles huffs out a short laugh. He glances down, at where he's idly poking his food with the fork. "Jackson is my arch-nemesis.”

Peter has to consciously resist the urge to sigh in exasperation. “Why doesn't that surprise me.“

“Every hero needs one,” Stiles says solemnly.

“And you're the hero in this story?”

“Well it's definitely not gonna be you, is it? You're like this burnt cookie in a jar, thinking that you're unique because you're different from other cookies. But you're just overdone. Hey, speaking of cookies…“ He reaches over to the baking tray and picks up one.

“What about Jordan?” Peter prompts. Seriously. He's never met anyone with such a short attention span. The boy could compete with a goldfish and lose. “Is he your loyal sidekick?”

Stiles freezes. He puts the cookie back on the tray before it even reaches his mouth. “No. Jordan is… he is—he was my first boyfriend.”

“Was?” asks Peter, though he knows the answer even before Stiles’ eyes glaze over and he opens his mouth.

“He's dead."

Stiles pushes to his feet. He scoots up their empty plates with fingers and puts them into the dishwasher. He won't look at Peter, letting him know that their conversation has come to an end.

Peter tries to cover his immediate, unhappy reaction. Interestingly enough he's been enjoying bickering with Stiles. He sits silently and waits to see if Stiles turns around, but when that doesn't happen he has to admit there's no getting around the sheer stubborn willpower that is Stiles. If the boy doesn't want to talk, it seems no one will move him.

"I'm tired,” Peter offers the white flag. Stiles' shoulders slump in relief and Peter knows he's made the right choice. “Feel free to use the bathroom adjoined to the guest room. I told Sam to put towels there.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. Then he pauses, sending Peter a cautious glance over his shoulder. “What if I want to sleep downstairs on the couch?”

It is the simplest, softest demand disguised by a question mark, but somehow Peter feels that however he responds will define their future relationship. “It's your choice,” he says slowly, and judging by the small smile he receives, it's the right thing to say. “I need to go to the office tomorrow but I'm taking you out on Saturday."

Stiles frowns. "What? Why? Where?"

"We are going shopping," Peter says, amused by the deer-in-the-headlights look Stiles gets. “I won't have you going around in the same clothes, and mine are too big and too tasteful for you.”

Stiles puffs up with indignation, but he doesn't protest. Peter considers it a small win.


	4. Round Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To learn from mistakes, you have to fuck up first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am very sorry for the long delay and for not having replied to all the comments yet. Every one of your amazing responses means the world to me and I love you all for them! I hope you enjoy this chapter, it's a sort a breather before the main events, aka a couple days of domestic bliss before Peter inevitably fucks up and things go to hell.

“Hey, what about that one? No, wait--Ooh, this is so cool! I want this one.”

Stiles makes grabby hands at a rack with a rather distasteful superhero merchandise (that has absolutely no place to be in this kind of a high-end store) and Peter makes a low, threatening sound in the back of his throat that has two store patrons snapping their heads at him in alarm.

Before the little infant can snatch anything, Peter grips his arm and drags him away in the direction of the dressing rooms. He shoves him into the first empty cubicle and snaps his fingers at the clerk who's been trailing after them, collecting a growing bundle of clothes in his arms. The man discards the pile on a stool and Peter pulls the curtains before Stiles can make an escape.

He hears a resigned huff from behind the curtains, then rustling and then--

“Hey, where's the incredibly-fucking-adorable plaid shirt?”

“Oh dear,” says Peter, leaning against the frame and picking up at the dirt under his fingernails. “The clerk must have accidentally dropped it.”

“Jerk,” Stiles mutters. “So I guess Mrs. Pacman t-shirt fell out along with it?”

“I'm not your benefactor. You're going to take whatever I decide to put on you,” Peter says with finality, and that's the end. He's found himself enjoying their back-and-forth’s but when it comes to fashion there's no room left for arguments. Stiles better learns that if he wants to survive safe and sound in Peter's presence.

His eyes scan the shop over his shoulder, settling on Boyd who's standing next to a rack with colorful bathrobes. A little girl with messy pigtails is trying to capture his attention by tugging at his pants. With every tug, Boyd’s scowl deepens a little bit more.

“You're such a drama queen,” Stiles proclaims, shoving the curtains aside and stepping out. The unbuttoned dress shirt he's put on and the pair of tight-fitting jeans that definitely wasn't in the clothes pile make him look like Peter's personal jailbait, and judging by his grin it's the effect he was aiming for.

Peter gives him a sly grin and a slow once-over. "The button down is supposed to be buttoned down."

Stiles glances down at himself. “Mmm… I like it like this. Whatcha think, Boyd?”

Boyd's scowl slips from his face when he looks at Stiles, and Peter has to fight the urge to step in front of the boy to cover him.

“Looks good to me,” Boyd says with a shrug. The girl at his leg blinks at them curiously.

“At least someone is appreciative,” Stiles says to Peter. He backs into the dressing room with a wide grin and draws the curtains.

Well.

Peter supposes he can be appreciative if Stiles wants him to. “Try on the jade v-neck and the black pants.”

A grunt reaches his ears but there's more rustling from inside, meaning Stiles has decided to comply for now. Whatever fluke it is, Peter better make a use of it because it _will_ pass.

He's about to slip inside the dressing room when he feels that insistent prickle on the back of his neck, the one he gets when something is out of place. He whirls around.

Someone is staring, and Stiles is yet to reveal who's after him.

A pair of heads peek out from behind Boyd's bulk (pretty girls, eyes flashing with Beta gold, and Peter exhales in relief, because it's not a threat, at least not this time). Boyd turns around to glare at the girls until they retreat and vanish behind the high racks, the smooth curves of their tilted necks the last thing Peter sees.

This is ridiculous. He can't jump at every shadow and startle at every rustle. He's in the right to know who he's up against. Stiles owes him the truth.

“The finger-shaped bruise on the back of your neck,” he says, and the rustling stops for a second before it resumes with forceful vehemence. “Who's responsible?”

He has to wait for a reply until after Stiles has opened the curtains again. “None of your business.”

“Was it the person you worked for?”

“I said…“ and Stiles spins around to face the mirror, turning this way and that to assess how much he likes himself in the outfit. “None of your damn business.”

There's a little crease of concentration between his eyebrows, his tongue peeking out, pink between shiny lips, and for a moment Peter lets himself forget that he should feel irritation instead of a building heat; that there is an issue to worry about. He steps inside, comes up behind Stiles. With one hand on a slender shoulder and the other on a narrow hip, he stills the boy's erratic movements.

“This looks good, don't you think?” he purrs, smoothing the fabric under his fingers with lazy strokes.

“I think,” Stiles says, amber eyes meeting Peter's in the mirror, “that I said I wanted to lay low. This isn't low. This is parading in front of hundreds of people with smartphones and a 4G connection.”

Peter slides his arms around Stiles' waist to tuck the shirt into the jeans. Stiles makes a non-agreeable sound when Peter's fingers dip behind the waistband but makes no attempt to pull away.

“Do you trust me--”

“That would be a big fat no,” says Stiles immediately.

Peter sighs. “Stiles, please, allow me the privilege of finishing my own sentences for once.” His head dips low and he breathes against the boy's ear. Stiles shivers and licks his lips. His eyes are calm but his mouth hangs open and his head is ever-so-slightly tilted back as if hoping to lean on Peter's shoulder. “Do you trust me to know what's in my best interest? Which--at the moment--is very much tied with your personal protection?”

Stiles' body is warm and he smells like forest after heavy rain and cracking fire under a starry sky. His breath hitches when Peter's fingers dip lower behind the waistband.

“Probably sh-shouldn't, but yeah. Sure. Why the hell not.”

After he's finished tucking the shirt in, Peter takes a step back (misses the heat and the enticing smell instantly). “Now, this looks proper. I won't have to be ashamed to be seen with you on the way back.”

In the mirror's reflection, Stiles sends him a withering glare. He spins around and shuts the curtains in Peter's face.

  
*

A subtropical heat wave hits the town on Sunday. Peter spends the day on boring meetings with lower-ranked Alphas of the local packs, listening to their demands and snuffing out factional strifes with charm and witty comebacks before they even have a chance to break out. By the time he gets home his lungs are burning and his gelled up hair is clinging to his head like a damp blanket. It's late afternoon, and even though the world's orange tint is soothing on the eye, it's still too damn hot.

He finds Boyd on the patio, dressed in a grey tank top with soaking-wet patches of sweat on his back. The bodyguard stands as still as a statue, his breathing shallow. His eyes flash gold behind his sunglasses when he senses Peter's presence inside the house. Peter rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and joins him, telling him to take a break. He's never seen the man look so grateful.

Once Boyd is out of the way, Peter locates Stiles, not even having to take a look around. Like there's a magnetic pull guiding him forward, he finds the boy on a deckchair by the swimming pool.

Stiles doesn't acknowledge Peter at first, and even when Peter's dark shadow falls over him, his eyes stay closed and his heart beats a steady rhythm. Water shimmers in the last rays of sun, casting lights across his skin, and he looks delicious like this, sprawled, helpless, oblivious. For the world to see and devour. A picture swims up before Peter's eyes before he can help it; of Stiles in this vulnerable position, of Boyd standing beside him on guard; protecting him (when that is a right belonging to the Alpha), stepping in (where Peter doesn't have time to be).

“Hello, pet," he says loudly, annoyed by--he's not even sure what exactly. He kicks Stiles' legs off the lower part of the deckchair and sits there.

That makes Stiles finally wake up. His eyes peek open, squinting up at him. He doesn't seem to acknowledge that just a second ago, he was here like an offering for anyone who would want to hurt him. “What happened to pup?” he pouts sardonically. “I was growing fond of it.”

His ribs are softly visible under the skin, the hipbones are two sharp points, and Peter makes a mental note to make Stiles eat a larger meal for dinner. Although he's pretty sure the problem isn't with Stiles not willing to eat but having lacked the opportunities to properly feed himself. Well, he has Peter now, and Peter takes care of his pets. The dog he got for his eighth birthday was the happiest, best well-fed pug in the world. In no time, Stiles will be too.

He tilts his head with a smirk. “I'm trying out what fits you best.”

“Well, try again because I already told you that I'm not your pet.”

“But you would make such a pretty pet,” Peter says. He trails over Stiles' hipbone with a finger, making Stiles twitch and screw up his face with a choked off laughter. Ticklish? When Stiles sees Peter's smug grin, he rolls his eyes and shuffles away from the touch.

“Does everything I say just go over your head?”

“Are these my swim trunks you're wearing?” Peter asks instead.

Stiles glances down at himself, then up at Peter with a wide smile. “You refused to buy me the ones I wanted. It was either this or skinny dipping, and I'm not so sure Boyd would appreciate that. Although…” he puts his legs in Peter's lap. “You never know.”

Peter shoves them off. He doesn't want to talk about Boyd, who is taking over Peter's duties, who is by Stiles' side because Peter can't. “You mean the dreadful pair of swim trunks with purple frogs? I will have my money spent on tasteful things only.”

"You're like a giant baby."

Peter bites his tongue to keep himself from scoffing. "You still don't seem to realize the fragile situation you've found yourself in. This isn't a vacation."

"I don't know,” Stiles purses his lips. “Put on the speedos I found in a drawer with the trunks and then we will see.”

Out of nowhere (there's no scent of interest, no intention, just lazy sun-bathed boredom), he crawls to Peter and slides into his lap, knees spreading so they bracket the Alpha. "What's the problem? Am I boring you already?"

He pushes down, rolls his hips, skin warm on touch. His eyes are two ponds of gold.

It would be so easy to lean in and take.

In one swift motion Peter grabs Stiles and flips him over, draping himself over his back. “What did I tell you?” he breathes against the triangle of moles in between the shoulder blades.

A sweet shudder runs through Stiles. He tries to push himself up, wriggle away, elbow Peter in the stomach, anything, but Peter places a firm hand on his nape and uses his weight to pin him down. Stiles grunts and glares at Peter over his shoulder.

Peter isn't in the habit of repeating himself but he makes an exception for Stiles. “What did I tell you?”

Stiles blinks away loose strands of longer hair which have fallen into his eyes, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “You told me not to provoke you,” he says, and Peter's chest rumbles with satisfaction. This is how it should be. No defiance, no childish naivete.

He looks up at his fingers splayed over the bruise on Stiles' neck. It must still feel tender, must still hurt when pressed. Peter does, just to see the reaction, and Stiles hisses in pain and spits out an unpleasant string of curses. He tries to push away but Peter tightens his hold, not quite ready to let go.

“What's their name?” he asks.

“I told you it's--”

“You see,” Peter cuts in. It has been going so well. Why does Stiles have ruin the moment? “You freeloading here and possibly putting me in danger makes it very much my business.”

“Dammit,” Stiles grits through his teeth, trying to wriggle away with a new-found vigor. “Let me--”

Peter allows the pitiful attempt at escape unfold for a few seconds before he gets bored and lets Stiles go with a sigh. Stiles takes a moment to realize he's free, and even then he doesn't scramble off the deckchair. He lays next to Peter, panting but still. Peter sits on the edge and waits.

"I want to hear the name, pet,” he says, after the silence stretches on for too long, “that is not negotia--"

“Deucalion, okay?” Stiles grinds out. “It's Deucalion.” He pushes himself up to his knees and turns to face Peter.

Peter narrows his eyes. The blood in his veins should run cold but it burns with excitement instead. This is much more interesting than what he's hoped for. He leans in, breath ghosting over Stiles' lips. “That's a rather important part that you omitted. To steal a plaything from another head Alpha could not end well for me. As I hear it, Deucalion is very possessive of his things.”

Stiles' mouth curls into a condescending smirk. “Don't insult us both by pretending that this doesn't make it more fun for you. Why do you think I didn't want to tell you in the first place? I knew you were gonna behave like a kid wanting the bigger lollipop.”

Peter draws back with a grin. He should feel insulted but well, Stiles isn't wrong. This kind of game he does enjoy. When there is more at stake, there is a bigger thrill of winning. And Stiles is such a clever boy. He sees through Peter, right to the center of his greedy and prideful core.

He's not sure how his face looks like, but Stiles' mouth curls in disgust at the sight of it and he doesn't speak with Peter for the rest of the day.

  
*

After the rest of Sunday was spent in boring silence, Peter hopes for improvement when he arrives home from work on Monday afternoon, but it seems he's in no such luck. Boyd and Stiles are nowhere to be seen and the house is unusually quiet, save for soft rustling sounds coming from above his head. He climbs the stairs and opens the first door to his left.

The sun streams fill the study with a warm glow. Stiles is curled up on the window seat, a thick book open on his lap. He doesn't notice Peter at first, immersed in what he's reading. He blindly reaches for the steaming cup of coffee sitting by his hip. His fingers are fast and uncoordinated and he knocks the cup over but Peter's there to catch it before the liquid sloshes out.

“Now, now. Careful with this.”

Stiles blinks up at him in confusion before his brain comprehends that where no one was a second ago now stands Peter in his tailored suit saving his coffee from spilling over. When it does click together, his unguarded expression shuts down and a hint of suspicion creeps in.

“How long have you been in here?”

Peter puts a finger on the page where Stiles was reading his book, using it as a bookmark and flipping over the cover to take a peek at the title. “I don't recall ever buying Lord of The Rings.”

“That's because it's not yours,” Stiles says, slapping his hand away to open the book where it was. “I borrowed it from Boyd.” His hair is mussed, sun rays pouring in from the high window bathing the tips in honey-comb yellow, and Peter feels the urge to fix it, leave his own mark on Stiles, have his hair how Peter wants it. He doesn't. Instead he reaches for the mug and takes a sip, grimacing at the sweetness.

“You and Boyd are friends now?”

Stiles gingerly traces the spine of the book. “As he's the only person I get to interact with in a whole day, yes, we've become friends. As alien as the concept might seem to you.”

Peter nods. In his opinion this kind of relationship between employer and employee should never occur, but he can easily picture Stiles ignoring all the established customs and bulldozing his way through Boyd's professionalism with single-minded intent. It was inevitable from the beginning so it shouldn't bother him.

It does.

“Where is he?”

“He kept hovering over me and I couldn't concentrate so I sent him away. I think he's outside growling at any butterfly that dares to move too close to the house.”

“He shouldn't be taking orders from you.”

At that, Stiles smirks. “I can be persuasive. Now go, I want to finish a few more chapters.” He waves a hand at Peter in a shooing gesture and bows his head over the book again.

Peter doesn't move. “I need to finish some paperwork.”

Stiles makes a show of putting a thumb on the paragraph he started to read, and with a sigh raises his eyes from the book. “What holds you back?”

“I usually do it here.”

Stiles looks at the empty table on the other side of the room then back at Peter. “I don't follow.”

You wouldn't, Peter grunts in his mind. He's used to the quiet and solitude when he works in the study. Now Stiles will be here with his rustling book and twitching limbs and knocking over mugs with coffee, and Peter won't be able to concentrate on the work.

Stiles gives him an infuriating grin as if he can read Peter's mind. “I will be quiet, I promise.” He makes a zipping gesture over his lips, his head bowing to continue reading the book.

Peter glares at him for a moment but gives up. He goes to his bedroom to take a shower and change into more comfortable clothes, and returns to the study with a stash of papers in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He feels on edge as he makes his way across the room. The sun has set low on the horizon, and Stiles flipped on the floor lamp next to his seat and, Peter notices with appreciation, the table lamp. He doesn't comment on it as he sits down behind the desk.

He takes the first paper in his hand and picks up a pen, narrowing his eyes when Stiles coughs shortly. The boy grins at him in amusement. “Oh, sorry. Sore throat. Was that loud?”

Peter sighs, wondering why he allowed Stiles to invade his structured albeit boring life. He starts reviewing the first paper, making short scribbles of notes on the side. At first, his eyes keep flickering to Stiles, expecting him to speak, move or breathe loudly. But Stiles turns pages, drinks his coffee and is the perfect picture of calmness, and gradually, the tension eases off Peter's shoulders. For the next two hours, he forgets Stiles is there with him altogether, immersed into the texts in front of his tired eyes.

He doesn't even notice when Stiles closes his book, puts it aside, and slips out of the door. What he notices is the plate of pasta placed on the desk beside his left hand. He looks up at Stiles.

“It's almost ten,” the boy says awkwardly, scratching the side of his jaw.

“I forgot about dinner,” Peter says.

Stiles gives him a warm smile. “That's why I brought the plate under your nose. I'll be downstairs going through Netflix if you need anything.”

He's out the door before Peter can query about what on earth he could possibly need from Stiles. Picking up the fork, he digs in and puts a piece in his mouth. His eyes scan the empty room, which seems too big suddenly, quieter than before even though Stiles for once hold to his word and didn't make a noise. Peter takes a second forkful. Wind outside picks up and branches scrape and tap against the window. His sensitive ears catch the low murmur of television and he growls in irritation, his focus on work lost for the day.

*

“Peter.”

The word is clipped with anger, making Peter's pupils bleed red.

“I was under the impression that you and I weren't talking to each other,” he grinds out.

Laura continues as if she didn't hear him, as direct and audacious as ever. “I had to pay some sleazy reporter to ensure that several photos of you and your newest boytoy don't leak out to public.”

“And you are calling me because you expect a pat on the back?” Peter says, turning his head when he hears a soft thud coming from the patio.

It's Tuesday, and Stiles has decided that he needs to learn how to defend himself. Boyd has him standing in a defensive posture, circling around the boy, adjusting his stance here and there. When he deems Stiles ready, he moves to stand in front of him. Stiles throws the first punch, which Boyd easily deflects and in a split second has Stiles in a chokehold.

“You've never cared about my previous affairs. Why the sudden interest in Stiles?”

Laura scoffs. “Oh, so it does have a name.”

Peter feels himself go still. “Of course he has a name, as every being born into this lousy world does.”

Stiles' mouth hangs open in an astonished little ‘o’ when Boyd releases him. He jumps excitedly, demanding the Beta teaches him how to do it. Boyd rolls his eyes but he looks pleased with himself. There's a high flush on his cheeks that Peter resents.

“Wow, speaking of the kid really does get you all riled up.” Before Peter can ask, Laura says, “Isaac talked. Oh, well. He just squirmed and tried to make stupid excuses but I put two and two together. Plus the photos. He's cute, I'll give you that.”

“You should have let those photos leak out,” Peter says, eyes glued to the scene unfolding outside. This time it's Boyd who attacks first. He makes sure to do it slowly and to guide Stiles through the moves. Stiles' button nose scrunches up, as if that will somehow help him remember the moves.

“You're serious, aren't you? Damn it, Peter, what are you planning? I know you. You never do anything without an ulterior motive.”

“Why, maybe I stopped trying to control everything in my life.”

Boyd's foot kicks out and connects with Stiles' under knee. He catches him before Stiles drops to the ground, the muscles in his arms flexing as he hauls Stiles up. They do a repeat. And again. Both panting and sweaty and grinning. Bare skin rubbing against bare skin. When Boyd holds Stiles for the fourth time, he murmurs something in his ear and Stiles chuckles.

“You are growling,” Laura says. She sounds unimpressed.

“I have to go,” Peter responds around sharp teeth. “I will stop by and explain the situation. And I would appreciate if Derek was there as well.”

Laura sighs. “I'll talk to him but I'm not making any promises.”

When she hangs up, Peter walks to the fridge and retrieves a bottle of water. He hears a quiet paddling of bare feet against the marble floor but doesn't acknowledge it, letting Stiles have his moment of thinking that he can sneak up on him.

A warm breath tickles the short hair on his nape. “You don't have to pretend not to hear me. If I wanted to, you'd never know what hit you.”

Peter unscrews the bottle and turns around, the first night of his meeting with Stiles vivid in his memory; the feeling of being overpowered, the gut-wrenching helplessness. He shoves the bottle in Stiles' hand and orders him to take a drink. Stiles rolls his eyes but obeys.

When he's done, Peter takes the bottle back and puts it on the counter. He takes in Stiles' disheveled appearance; his damp hair, the excited spark in his eyes. He takes a step forward, and another, backs Stiles up against the kitchen island. When there's no room left, he puts his hands on either side of the boy. The rhythm of Stiles' elevated heartbeat is like a symphony to his ears. He leans in, takes a little taste of skin under Stiles' ear: a trace of adrenaline, a pinch of fear and arousal.

Then he tastes something foreign, something that doesn't belong on Stiles. Another werewolf. He draws back, grimacing in disgust. “Go take a shower. You stink.”

Stiles glares at him. “Obviously. I was training with Boyd.”

“I know, I saw you through the window. You have an extraordinarily slow reaction time.”

After Stiles has stormed up the stairs and slammed the bathroom door shut, Peter finds Boyd on the patio, wiping sweat off his face with a towel. Boyd lets the towel fall on the deckchair when Peter crosses the space between them, and snaps to attention.

Is Peter overreacting? Is he behaving like a greedy little child who doesn't know better? Who, as Stiles so strangely put it, wants the biggest lollipop? He would probably took more time to think about it but then he inhales and smells Stiles' enticing scent mixed with Boyd's like a bad cocktail of pheromones and decides it doesn't matter.

“It's rather thoughtful of you to indulge Stiles like this,” he starts conversationally.

Boyd frowns, not quite understanding. “It's no hassle. To be honest, I'd rather indulge Stiles than spend the day motionless.”

“Don't you think though,” Peter counters, “that you will react faster to a potential threat if you're not engaged in any distracting activity?”

“If you're worried I won't be able to perform my duties, Alpha, I can assure you that I am one of the best trained in the field. I am able to focus on several things at once and react appropriately.”

Peter sighs. He's become so used to dealing with people familiar with the subtle art of insinuation that when it comes to straight-forward thinkers like Boyd, he often forgets to dumb it down for them. “Let me paraphrase and make it simple for you,” he says, and the steel in his voice makes Boyd stiffen. “You are not paid to entertain Stiles. You are not paid to be buddies with him. You are not paid to touch him. You are paid to stand in a hearing distance like a good little dog and sniff out threats coming up his way. Are we clear?”

Boyd never wavers. His eyes widen but that's the only sign of discomfort Peter will get from him. Every retort he has, he swallows. His fingers curl in a tight fist but it never leaves the side of his body. He replies as if his jaw is wired shut. “Yes, Alpha.”

Finally he understands. Peter clasps him on the shoulders, giving him a wide grin. “Good. Now that we've settled that, why don't you switch a few shifts with Raeken? Just to mix it up.”

*

When the agency calls to let him know that beginning Friday Theo will be covering the day shifts, Peter tells himself that the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach is satisfaction, even though he's familiar with that feeling and it doesn't usually weigh like a rock.

He tries to ignore it.

It doesn't help that Boyd is so damn helpful. Wednesday goes by with the Beta standing on guard and ignoring Stiles when the boy tries to engage him in a conversation. Just like Peter wanted. Stiles gives it a few tries but stops when there's no result. He frowns and shuffles back to the house with hands thrust in his pockets like a petulant child, and Peter thinks that's the end of it.

But then Stiles starts sending him these little contemplative glances, unabashedly and even when Peter's staring right back at him, as if he's figured out Peter is the one to blame for Boyd's sudden silence.

Peter expects Stiles's passive-aggressive energy to twist into in a loud and obnoxious confrontation but Stiles never addresses him directly. He keeps glaring though, and in a way that's even more irksome than a straightforward argument.

Peter knows that Stiles knows that he's the culprit. And yet he won't come out to say it so Peter can brush him off with deliberate indifference. The accusation hangs between them like a ticking bomb that will never go off, and if Peter is the first to respond to it, he might as well wave the white flag of surrender. So he bears Stiles' accusatory glares in silence and waits for the outburst that never comes.

By Friday he is ready to rip someone apart with his bare hands.

Not to have Stiles on the receiving end, he grabs a gym bag from his office. When he arrives at the gym across the street from his office, he heads straight for the fighting ring, passing squat racks and machines with plates heavy enough to tear human limbs apart.

He needs to get someone on their knees and make them bleed.

He's lucky, because the two lower-ranked Alphas currently sparring in the ring look bulky and unapologetic and just what he needs. He joins them, fights them both at once and wins the first and the second round. They try not to hold back but their stiff muscles and tight expressions suggest they're very much aware of Peter's status. So only when Peter's fingernails grow into claws and his punches bring out dark sticky blood, they press back and win the third round.

After an hour of growls and sweat he's finally satisfied, his body aching pleasantly, blood smeared like lotion over his skin but flesh already knitting itself back to health. He shakes hands with his opponents and takes a shower, rolling up his blood-stained clothes in a bag. He plans on sneaking up to his master bedroom when he gets home, and possibly avoid Stiles the next morning as well (however cowardly it may seem). He's not in the mood for another stare down from Stiles.

What he doesn't expect is to come home to a delicious smell of cooked meat. His mouth waters as he follows where his nose leads him, dropping the gym bag to the floor in the hall. But instead of finding Sam at the stove, the kitchen is empty and looks like a bomb has gone off in there. The counter is barely visible under dirty kitchen utensils, grease-stained recipe books and unpacked groceries. Peter doesn't have much time to take in the scene when Raeken appears in the doorway. Peter almost forgot to expect him instead of Boyd.

“Mr. Hale. Welcome home,” Theo drawls, leaning against the doorway when he should be standing in attention.

Peter's eyes narrow. “Care to explain what happened here?”

Raeken absorbs the mess without a care in his dark eyes. “Kid cooked a dinner.”

“Does that sound like an informative explanation to you?” Peter grits through his teeth, reminding himself that it was his idea to get rid of Boyd, knowing very well that Theo didn't care much for proper etiquette. So in theory he has nothing to complain about.

Raeken shrugs. “I think it was meant as a surprise for you, sir. I don't know. He hasn't really been talking to me. Apparently my face is untrustworthy.”

There's something sly in his voice that rankles Peter. “And where is he now?”

“In the living room, sir.”

“Well then, go patrol the grounds or something.” Peter says. “Make yourself useful.”

Raeken watches him, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Of course, sir. Excuse me.”

He leaves Peter irritated and slightly befuddled. All that is left forgotten, though, when Peter follows the given direction and finds Stiles curled asleep on the couch. His breathing is deep and steady, charcoal eyelashes splayed over soft skin like wings. Peter squats in front of the couch and Stiles' eyes open as if on command, blinking away the remnants of his dream.

“Hi,” he says, voice rough and lazy.

“Hi.”

Stiles doesn't seem to be yet fully awake. He rolls onto his elbow, murmurs sleepily, “I waited for you.” and Peter feels a heat pool low in his belly at the words, forgetting at once why he didn't go straight home in the first place.

He reaches out and runs his knuckles over Stiles' cheek. A line creases the boy's brow but he doesn't shy away. “My apologies. I went to the gym. I should have called to let you know.”

“I didn't know werewolves did that.”

Peter gives him a playful smile. “There's a lot of things humans generally know nothing about when it comes to werewolves.”

“So the nature is fair after all and you all don't have bodies of greek gods?”

“Well, we do have predispositions and a fast metabolism but that doesn't mean that if I eat pizza for breakfast and cakes for dinner, this,” Peter nods to his muscles visible under the thin layer of clothing, “will stay as pretty as it is now.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh, pushing himself up, and Peter's hand falls to the couch. Stiles rubs the sleep from his eyes, looking around. “Where's _that_ guy?”

Peter quirks an eyebrow. “That guy?”

“Yes, _that_ guy. Theo something. That guy replacing Boyd for whatever reason you won't share with the class.”

And here it is, Peter thinks. He thought that when Stiles finally cracks and asks (accuses), Peter will brush him off, maybe offer a snide comment. Instead, he lies, and that's in a way even worse. “They are changing shifts for a while. It's a standard procedure.“

“But--”

“Raeken is outside,” Peter interrupts. “What do you think of him?”

“I don't trust his face,” Stiles says. “And I want Boyd back.”

“Does that sound like a valid reason to you?”

Stiles scowls. “So what, I don't care. He seems off. I was making you dinner and he kept invading my space. When I told him to get lost, the jerk just smirked and refused to move. It was freaking disturbing.”

“Can we rewind back to the part where you made me dinner?” Peter asks. Stiles has an inclination to exaggerate and Peter hopes that's the case this time as well. He got rid of one bodyguard. He doesn't want to have to do it again.

Stiles rolls his eyes. ”Steak and mashed potatoes. Nothing fancy, and by now it's gonna be cold anyway. But it's in the kitchen if you want to heat it up.”

Covered under layers of mess, but Peter doesn't mention that. ”Why didn't you let Sam prepare it?”

Stiles shrugs. “I wanted to do something for you,” he replies, and it's not a lie. But it's not the whole truth either. Peter has learned that if he wants information from Stiles, he has to press until the boy yields.

“Were you bored?”

Stiles sags against the couch, a gush of air coming out through his lips. “Out of my mind! I'm not used to being this inactive. I need to do something, Peter. You're away all day and I get that this was all my idea and that I shouldn't come out on my own too often. Deucalion has people everywhere. But I will crawl these expensively wallpapered walls if I don't have anything to work on soon.” Stiles pauses minutely before he gives Peter a contemplative look. “Is there maybe something in your firm I can help with?”

Peter studies the boy. Stiles has started to grow on him but that doesn't mean that along the way Peter got hit in the head and his IQ dropped. He knows there is something Stiles isn't telling him. “You would need access to the company's files for that.”

Stiles purses his lips. “Well…”

Peter pushes himself up from his knees and curls his fingers around Stiles' throat. It's quick and sudden and the boy doesn't have any time to react. Stiles' eyes widen in shock and he tries to shove him away but Peter is much stronger than him, unmovable like a brick wall, and Stiles is hurting only himself by fighting back.

“P--Stop!”

When Peter shakes him, Stiles's body goes lax. There is a moment of stillness, like the eye of a hurricane, where Peter contemplates Stiles and Stiles stares back in fear. Then Peter runs a clawed finger over Stiles' nose, down to the upturned end and taps it twice.

“By this point I've come to expect better of you,” he says, voice heavy with disappointment. Stiles tries to turn away from him and the hand on his neck squeezes in a painful warning. Pay attention to me, it says. “To be this blunt with a lie. So amateurish. Did Deucalion send you here to spy on me?”

Does Peter have anything more in his possession that the man wants?

“W-what-- No!” Stiles' nails dig into the meat of Peter's forearm, leaving half moons of raw skin that heal instantly. His face is as red as a tomato, eyes blinking away tears welling up in them. Peter trains his ear to hear the lie but there isn't one. Still, he doesn't let go.

He tries to think about it rationally while Stiles writhes under him and fights for air. If Stiles wanted any other files, he'd take them without going through such a charade. If--and that's an if--Stiles was here for any other files, invading Peter's home would be a stupid way to go about it.

It would be ridiculous. And Stiles has proved to be a smart boy.

Peter draws back, releases Stiles and watches him cough and wheeze, rub his throat with a trembling hand. His body curls up in pain and it takes him a long time to get his breathing under control.

When he does, he looks up at Peter and his amber eyes are sharp with betrayal. His hand shoots out and slaps Peter. It's a slow and uncoordinated movement and Peter has plenty of time to duck out of the way. The strangest thing is, he doesn't. He sits still and receives his small punishment, which in the end hurts Stiles more than it hurts him. But it's his way of apologizing.

Stiles rises on wobbly legs and Peter doesn't help him, knowing his touch wouldn't be welcome right now. He lets Stiles go, and runs a hand over his face when he hears the slam of the door to the guest room.


	5. Round Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you want to get off a moving carousel, you need to jump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I'm so embarrassed it's been such a long time. I haven't forgotten about this baby, and I definitely plan on finishing it. Hopefully the sooner the better :) Meanwhile enjoy the update!

Stiles refuses to talk to Peter. His silence is like a barbed wire fence, built to tear Peter's flesh if he tries to pass through or dares to come too close.

Peter loves a bit of silence now and then but only when he's atop it, when he uses it to his own advantage or to laugh at other people. This kind of silence is different; it presses against his chest and gnaws at his insides.

He isn't sure how to deal with it. On one hand, he's certain he was in the right to know if Stiles was messing with him. He's found himself on thin ice by allowing the boy to sleep under his roof and he needs to be careful. 

On the other hand, there's that stretch of raw skin on Stiles’ neck in the exact same place where Deucalion's bruise has started to fade, and it looks even more painful than before. Peter feels sick whenever he catches a glimpse of it; the bruise telling he's no different from the other Alpha.

In the tradition of making bad decisions Peter starts prolonging his office hours just to keep himself out of the house. He occupies his brain with cases and his body with the fighting ring. It doesn't come even close enough to help him get rid of the twisting guilt.

He needs things to go back to normal, or else he might descend into insanity. He wants his evenings to be pleasant again. He just needs something… a tiny something that would help him bridge over the distance between himself and Stiles.

 

*

That something happens on a Wednesday evening, when Peter finds Stiles curled up on the couch, whimpering, in the middle of a nightmare. A red blanket which Stiles has borrowed to keep himself warm at nights is tangled around his legs. His eyes are shut and his breathing is rapid and shallow.

Peter walks up to the couch, apprehensive and morbidly curious at the same time. He squats down in front of Stiles and brushes a strand of hair from his sweat-covered forehead. Stiles starts awake with a gasp, his hands flying out to hit Peter in the face. Peter catches them, grips slender wrists in one hand while his other presses Stiles' body back against the couch.

Wide eyes stare up at him for a few precious seconds, and Peter should perhaps feel guilty for the excited thrill tingling deep inside his stomach at having those Bambi eyes directed at him again. 

Stiles tries to sit up. 

Peter pushes him back. The reaction is so surprising and unexpected that it momentarily stuns them both into stillness. Peter could say that he didn't mean to do it, that his hand disconnected from his brain for just a second. But that would be a lie. He doesn't want to let go and becomes only now fully aware of the fact. Now that Stiles is in his life, Peter will never want to let go.

It's a rather anticlimactic realization.

Stiles' watery eyes dart away. He clears his throat. “Can you let me up?”

_ I don't want to. _

“Of course.”

Peter retreats his hands. It's a slow and heavy movement, and it feels like his body is underwater. Stiles sits up, his eyes flickering around the room. He looks like a nervous wild animal that ventured too far out into the open.

And Peter knows that this is his chance to make things right again (at least as right as they could possibly be). He has an opening and it's up to him to reach out. So why are his lips glued together and his jaw wired shut? It should be easy. They're just words. 

Stiles clears his throat again. “I'm… I think I'm gonna sleep in the guest room.” He rises on his unsteady feet and Peter panics for the second time in his life.

(First time was when Talia's face had gone pale and her eyes grew distant, when Peter knew this would be the last time he'd get to see his sister. In a white room surrounded by the stench of fear and antiseptics, with the taste of sickness on the back of his tongue.)

There were so many words he'd wanted Talia to know, which had never left his mouth. He doesn't want to experience that kind of regret again.

He pushes to his feet and rounds Stiles to face him. “I… apologize.”

He's watching intently as Stiles tries to cover up his surprise, and wonders why he hasn't said that simple word sooner. He thought it would feel humiliating. He thought that admitting to his mistakes would unbalance their relationship. He foolishly thought that he needed to have the upper hand. Otherwise--

Otherwise what. What was he afraid was going to happen?

“You… apologize,” Stiles says slowly, annoyance creeping into the features of his face.

Maybe Peter simply didn't have any desire to go through this.

Stiles crosses his arms on the chest. “Are you seriously apologizing for an attempted murder? Is that a normal thing to do? ' _ Oh, I'm sorry I tried to kill you, it won't happen again. _ ' That's fucking rich.”

“It wasn't--”

“You want me call it something else? How about a physical assault. Strangulation. Abuse.”

“Stiles--”

“I could go on.”

“For hours. I'm well aware of that,” Peter says. “You have to understand that however much I'm inclined to respect your private life, our situation can easily get out of hand. I'm used to scheming, making plans. But I can't do that if you won't tell me anything. At the same time, I decided not to go behind your back to learn more about you. It's a carousel that rotates without stopping. Can you see my point?”

Stiles worries at his bottom lip. For a second it finally looks like he's going to open up a bit, but when he gazes up into Peter's eyes, he turns around and stalks away. Peter sits back down on the couch, leaning against the soft cushions, and wonders what Stiles keeps seeing in his eyes that prevents him from being honest with Peter.

Greed, probably. Arrogance.

Definitely lust.

He lets his head fall back with a thunk and grins up at the ceiling. Whatever is he going to do with his life? 

 

*

Nothing prominent has changed since Stiles crashed Peter's painstakingly structured life, and yet Peter feels like if he would look into a mirror now, a stranger's eyes would be staring back at him. (He avoids mirrors like the plague.)

He and Stiles had their little routine ( _ before you screwed everything up _ ); Stiles bickered with Peter, was the same brat every day. It's Peter who has gradually changed. It's little things, really, nothing anyone else would notice. 

But Peter notices.

He noticed his growing sense of unease thinking about Stiles' inevitable departure from his life, and his inability to accept it.

He noticed the burst of frustration when after he'd apologized to Stiles, he still found him the next morning stubbornly silent.

He notices that when he enters his study and sees a stack of papers and a flash drive on the table (with the promised red bow and a paper tag addressed to:  _ Asshole _ .) the first emotion he feels isn't a delight from winning but a soothing slide of warmth deep inside him, because Stiles has just handed over his only lever and Stiles accepts his apology. 

Stiles trusts him. At least a little bit. But it's a start.

He also notices, with incredulity, that when his phone pings with a text from Isaac while Peter looks for Stiles, telling him he's finally put together a file on Stiles' background and if he should bring it over, Peter sends a reply, “Get rid of it.” 

He takes the last step down the stairs and catches a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror. He stops.  _ Get rid of it?  _ Even if he told Stiles he wouldn't look, he should still want to read the file in secret. Right? It contains everything Stiles isn't telling him. It's in Peter's best interest that he reads it.

Isaac texts him a question mark but Peter is too annoyed to reply. 

He should detest Stiles for doing this to him.

He finds the boy lazing on the couch. Coming up behind Stiles' back, he leans down to mutter against his ear. “I appreciate your gift, but may I point out that you've just handed the only thing allowing you to stay here? That's a bad, bad strategy.”

Stiles startles beautifully. He leans to the side to glare at Peter. “You didn't need it in the first place, so fuck off,” he says, making Peter raise an eyebrow. “All you had to do was prepare a better defense, which with this case wouldn't be a problem. My information is just a sweet bonus.”

Peter walks around the couch to hover over Stiles, just like his own irritation hovers over Peter. “Are you implying that I let you stay here out of the goodness of my rotten heart?” He leans his hand against the headrest next to Stiles, who gives him a withering look. 

”I'm implying that you were bored and found me entertaining enough to keep for longer than a couple of days, and actually altruistic or greedy enough--can't decide on that one yet--to want to bring down a whole drug cartel. Now can you see why I'm a bit hesitant to share my life story with you?”

“Mm… Maybe you're right.” Peter runs a finger of his free hand over Stiles' upturned nose, down to his mouth where it catches on the boy's bottom lip. Stiles snatches his wrist in a grip. Peter shakes the hand off. It hangs uselessly in the air before it falls down into the boy's lap. 

“But if I was bored, what were you?”

Stiles furrows his brow. “What was I?”

“Why did you ask me to get access to my company's files?”

“I...” Stiles glares down at his lap, hands clenching. “I lost track of what I should be doing. I meant to--” He's nervous, his heart is racing in his chest and Peter can't wait to finally hear the truth from Stiles’ mouth for the first time.

Stiles growls in frustration. “It felt good being here, okay? I can't believe I'm saying that but I felt… I just… I wanted to catch a break, okay? But I forgot what I should be doing instead. Every day here is--it's so effortless it kills me,” he exhales shakily. ”You're such a horrible person but I still-- and don't think I forgot about how horrible you are.”

Peter snickers at that. Stiles keeps his gaze glued to his lap. 

“It feels like a betrayal,” he murmurs after a while, more to himself than to Peter. “I realized that, and I asked you for the files. I honestly have no idea what I was thinking.” He finally looks up. His eyes are wide and bright. “After the police station, Deucalion was so angry with me. I should have stayed there with him, I needed to stay with him, but I got--fuck, I got scared. I panicked and ran away and I didn't know where to go…”

“So you ended up here,” Peter supplies. 

Stiles nods jerkily.

“Stiles,” Peter says, finding himself only a breath away from Stiles, “why did you need to stay with Deucalion?”

“I don't want to tell you,” Stiles grits through his teeth.

“Why?”

“Because you wouldn't let me do it.”

Peter snorts. “Since when do you care about what I allow and don't allow you to do.” 

“You would find a way,” Stiles says in a certain voice, like he believes it to be true. Which it probably is. Peter has somehow decided he's invested in Stiles' wellbeing, and no one, not even Stiles, will jeopardize it.

“I--” Peter starts, but is interrupted by the doorbell. It's just as good because he's not even sure what he was about to say.

Before he has a chance to respond he hears Raeken (How could Peter forget Raeken was still in the house? He's losing his edge.) opening the door, and suddenly there is Isaac standing in the living room, with a file folder in his hand and a nervous but determined frown on his face. 

Peter eases up off Stiles. 

“Uh, hello,” says Stiles, eyeing Isaac, and he has that expression on him, the one he wore before Argent pushed him too far at the police station. He's either about to bolt or lash out, and Peter's not happy about finding out which one it's going to be.

“So you're the new fucktoy,” Isaac says. 

Jealousy is apparently not only an Alpha's flaw.

Before Stiles can throw whatever he finds first at Isaac's face, Peter stands between them. “Isaac, watch your tongue.” 

“Who is he?” Stiles demands.

Isaac steps to the side and regards Stiles with something dark and ugly in his eyes. “I'm Peter's Beta and also an employee of the Hale family. I'm the head of security engineering; I perform penetration tests and technical security analysis.” He says it in a tone insinuating Stiles is a bug under his foot who couldn't possibly understand what the word security engineering should even entail.

“Good for you,” Stiles says. Bored.

“Isaac,” Peter cuts in, “I'm currently in the middle of a case which I'd like you to take a look at, let me show you to the study.” He thinks about flashing his red eyes, but Isaac has always been perceptive when it comes to orders from his Alpha. Just like always, he would realize he's stepped over the line.

Isaac snaps to attention, the folder clenched tightly between his fingers--

He glances back at Stiles and, _oh_ , Peter thinks, _don't you dare--_

“Actually,” Isaac says. “I've brought the information you requested, Alpha.”

“If I remember correctly, I instructed you to destroy it.”

Isaac doesn't meet his eyes. He looks scared to death, worrying his bottom lip. “I thought I'd better made sure it's really what you wanted, Alpha.”

“ _ Isaac, _ ” Peter growls, and the word conveys everything and anything between disappointment and hot-blooded fury. Peter's good at that. And Isaac understand because he's smart. Usually. Now he's being a little child who doesn't know better.

Isaac bows his head, his cheeks reddening in shame. It's too late.

Stiles pushes up to his feet and walks around Peter. “What is he talking about?”

Before Peter can open his mouth, Isaac grits his teeth and says, “My Alpha requested a background check on you.”

The blood in Peter's veins turns to ice while anger boils inside his core, as hot as lava. It's violent and uncontrolled and Peter's vision goes red. He isn't sure what to deal with first. Isaac disobeyed his direct order. Twice. Isaac interrupted him. Isaac has come here to claim Peter as his Alpha in front of Stiles. 

Isaac is going to die if Stiles' cold stare is anything to go by. 

Stiles snatches the envelope from Isaac’s slack fingers while Peter grips his Beta by the back of the neck and drags him outside of the house. It's a bright sunny day, one to be described as beautiful and colorful. Cheerful. But Peter can only see the color of blood and Isaac's face is distorted in an ugly grimace.

“If anyone --” Peter starts, grips Isaac’s shoulder and feels a strong urge to sink his claws into the meat. He takes a calming breath, “if anyone else were to disrespect me like that, do you know what I would have done to them?”

Isaac keeps looking at his feet, shaking like a leaf in a strong wind, and that won't do.

“Look at me!”

“Y-yes, Alpha,” the Beta glances up at him, jerks his head up and down. He’s breathing fast and looks terrified to death, like he expects Peter to rip his heart out. Peter stares at Isaac for a long time, wondering when it has come to this. He thinks back to his mirror reflection, what he expected to see there and what had changed.

He sighs. Retracts his hand. “Go home.”

Isaac stares at him incredulously, as if in no way he's been expecting to get out of this so easily and for a second he looks so surprised it's borderline insulting. Peter's a reasonable man. This can't be the first nice thing Peter's ever done for Isaac, can it? He brought the boy in from the streets, helped him to stand back up on his feet.

“T-thank you, Alpha. I'm so sorry. I--”

“Save it.”

And so Isaac saves it. A small warm smile curls up the corners of his mouth when he looks up at Peter before he jogs away. Peter watches his retreating back, and wonders when he has given Isaac this lingering doubt of his position in the Pack. 

Surely Isaac must know that he belongs. 

Has Peter become Talia? Has the power and responsibility isolated him as much as it did to his sister? Peter loved Talia when they were children. He stopped recognizing her when she became the Alpha.  He scoffs and returns into the house, deliberately avoiding the hallway mirror.

A heavy folder comes flying at his head the second he steps into the living room. He catches it before it hits him.

“There you go,” Stiles spits. He turns around to leave.

Peter catches up to him. They struggle a bit before Peter has no other choice but to push Stiles backwards into the wall, trapping him. At least that's what he tells himself.

“You asshole,” Stiles bangs his hands against Peter's chest. “Stop harassing me for once!”

“Perhaps if you listened to me for once, we wouldn't need to resort to petty violence all the goddamn time. Do you know when I requested Isaac to investigate you?”

Stiles glowers at him. “Do you know how much I would have enjoyed punching you in your stupid face if it had any effect on you and wouldn't just break my hand?”

“The first day that you came here,” Peter continues. “And do you know when was the last time I checked on the progress?”

He doesn't talk about planning to destroy the documents. That would lay him bare, it would reveal too much. Thankfully this is enough. He has Stiles’ full attention now. And just like always, it's a beautifully addictive feeling.

“Never. Not once. I decided that I didn't care about any of that. I told you I wouldn't betray you like that and I didn't.” He should stop talking. Now. “This pains me to admit but I've been enjoying your company very much, Stiles.” Stop talking. “And not only because you've brought back excitement into my life. It's--”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Stiles interrupts. He looks scared. Why does he look scared? “Please stop.”

Peter gives him a slow smile. “Tell me, darling, why do you think my Beta came over here?”

“To re-establish werewolves are assholes?”

Peter's hand drifts to Stiles' hip. It settles there and pulls him closer. His thumb makes idle circles, eager to push into the crease between the pants and the t-shirt, to meet warm skin. “He felt threatened by your existence.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. ”That's dumb.”

“Is it? I wonder--“

He leans in to caress Stiles' neck, slow and gentle, the sweetest foreplay. He needs Stiles to want this until they both can't bear it anymore. After a devastating moment of stillness Stiles' head tilts back against the wall while his eyes close and his pulse races. Peter's lips touch his jaw, his cheek. He hears Stiles' breath catch in his throat.

"Peter..."

Peter showers him with more soft kisses, taking his time to map and study the warm skin. Stiles' feet are turned to the side, ready to run, but his fists clench in Peter's lapels to hold him in place.

With one swift slide of his thumb over the bottom lip, Peter lets Stiles know what's about to happen (this is your last chance, after this I'm never letting you go), then tilts his head to the side and kisses him. He feels a smoldering heat rise inside him as Stiles' grip tightens and he uses his hands to reel Peter in, deepening the kiss with a demanding urgency, and Peter thinks, “ _ finally _ ”.

His fingers tangle in dark hair, adding more pressure. It's as if his body has been taken over by the wolf's instincts of hunger and chase. It craves to mark the boy, own him and cherish him. 

It takes a lot not to lean back in when Stiles breaks the kiss ( _ too quick, not enough _ ). Shivering with lust but determined, he pushes Peter away. Stiles' hands are firm but his warm little exhales tickle Peter's spit-slicked lips and urge him to  _ take take take _ .

Peter puts a finger under Stiles' chin and lifts his head, so he has to look into Peter's eyes. There's still that strange gleam of fear in them. Peter thinks it's not fear of him but of what could be between them, what it would mean. Stiles' words echo in his ears. The ones which have been spoken out loud (It's effortless here, it feels good. It's like a betrayal.) and those which haven't (I have to go. I will leave you. There is something more important than you.)

Stiles gazes into his eyes, uncertain. “If I decide to leave… will you let me go?”

There's an ugly truth simmering under what's right and what will happen. “You won't do that,” Peter settles on replying, and Stiles, ever so observant, says, “That's not the point, though.”

“No, it's not,” Peter admits.

The fear turns into sadness. “I'm gonna go finish Boyd's book," Stiles says. "If you need me I'll be in the study.”

A pressure builds in Peter's chest, telling him not to let go of Stiles, that something is wrong. He lays one last gentle kiss on Stiles' mouth. 

He lets him go. For tonight.

Before sliding into bed, Peter takes a long shower, jerking off to images of porcelain skin under his lips, his fingers, his body. He comes shortly, sagging against the wet tiled wall, his ears buzzing. 

 

*

Peter should have realized by now that Stiles will always do the opposite of what Peter demands from him. Sleep on the couch when there's a guest room prepared. Befriend Boyd when it makes Peter rot with jealousy. Run away in the middle of the night when told to never leave.

Like every morning while coming down the stairs, Peter's ears automatically perk up to seek out Stiles' heartbeat to hear that soothing rhythm.

The warmth in his chest turns to ice when the only thing he hears is Raeken's steady heartbeat. He runs through every room of the house to make sure his ears don't deceive him. The last place Peter checks is the garden. 

It's empty. 

He heads back to the house, walks past Raeken standing in the corner of the hall. Peter doesn't see him. He goes to the living room where the couch smells like Stiles. Where there's a distant dip in a place where a body laid last night, every night for the past several weeks. The blanket is thrown over the backrest, smelling of peaceful dreams and bitter nightmares. 

It feels like a jolt of electricity goes through his body. Peter roars, his teeth and nails sharpen, his face distorts. With quivering hands he tears the blanket to shreds, leaving a bed of red ribbons on the floor like a pool of blood.

Dozens of scenarios run through his head:

He waits, or he goes about his life pretending nothing has ever happened. There was a guest (an annoying, rude guest) and now he's gone. Stiles doesn't show up.

He goes to the gym, picks up a mountain of an Alpha and beats them bloody. Stiles doesn't show up.

He dresses in tight black jeans and a v-neck and goes to Laura's club, finds a guy and fucks him on this couch. Stiles doesn't show up.

The solution, the inevitable action Peter is going to do is right there on the edge of his mind. It is to go after Stiles. To find the brat and-- what? He can't force him to stay, as much as he would love to. 

“Mr. Hale,” a voice says behind his back. “I might have an information on Stiles' whereabouts.” 

Peter looks at Theo Raeken's smirking face, calculating eyes and polished boots, and it's like he sees him for the first time.

“How?”

Theo shrugs. “The day you went shopping? Your sister didn't manage to pay out everyone. There was a guy at the store who knew Deucalion. He saw you with Stiles. Duke found out I'd worked for you in the past and paid me to bring Stiles back. But you and I both know that as much as Duke likes to show off, you have more money. Plus he has no real authority within your territory. I figured if I played it safe and stayed on your side, you'd one day need some information on him.”

He looks so proud of himself, like he's figured out the secret to life. 

Peter catches a quick glimpse of himself in black TV screen. He may have changed, underneath, but that is only for Stiles. There is still the sharp glint in his eyes and the condescending pull on his lips. 

Theo remains quiet as Peter walks up to him. He looks unsure, suddenly, breathing a bit faster. “That isn't what I asked,” Peter says. “As I am not brain-damaged, I'm quite capable of putting two and two together. What I would like to know is how do your propose to be useful to me?”

Theo licks his lips. “... I told you, I can offer information.”

“You mean the information where you tell me Stiles probably realized I might not ever let him walk away from me, or that he might actually like me enough not to drag me further into his mess? And judging by him only having friends he doesn't want to endanger, as he himself told me, the idiot is either somewhere on the streets or he might have been even stupider and went back to Deucalion to finish whatever plan he's got for him. Or to plead for mercy, which neither of us need.”

A muscle twitches at the corner of Theo's right eye, his mouth forms a rigid grimace. “I know the place where Deucalion has him. I've been there and for a certain price, I can tell you.”

Peter huffs out a humorless laugh. “Pups,” he mutters to himself. He puts a hand on Theo's shoulder, claws out, and shoves him into the wall. Theo’s head makes a nasty crack. “I don't need to know in which dump Deucalion would have Stiles. And you… You should be glad for your greediness. If you'd have tried to do anything to place Stiles in danger, we would be having an entirely different conversation right now.”

Theo clenches his fists and bites his lip in anger. “I can still be useful.”

Peter agrees. “Of course you can,” he says soothingly, “but not in the way you're picturing it. First, I want you to get hold of Boyd. Bring him in. Then there is someone I would like you to meet and tell about all the horrible things you've known or you've seen Deucalion do. Then we will talk about your… reward.”

“Who do you want me to talk to?”

Peter doesn't bother responding. He fishes his phone out of the pocket and scrolls through the contacts. He waits a couple of beeps until a gruff voice snaps on the other side of the line, “Detective Argent, who's calling?”


End file.
